


The Prophet From Maine

by JustHereForBookmarks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Modern Character in Westeros, R Plus L Equals J, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 10:16:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 283,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustHereForBookmarks/pseuds/JustHereForBookmarks
Summary: A man from modern day America wakes up to find himself in Westeros, years before the show's start. As a fan (and to an extent, realist), how will he act according to the future he knows is coming?I'm withholding any relationship tags or archive warnings to avoid giving too much of the game away. Hope you can forgive me!





	1. Chapter One

Clark blinked. He was just coming to and all he could see was a blurred green. He blinked again and the green came into focus. He was lying in tall grass, his face against the ground. He could smell the dirt.

He laid there for a few minutes. He had no choice. He was sore, much too sore than he had any right to be. The last thing he remembered before this…was he walking toward his apartment? Was it night? Was there…Jesus, maybe there was a good reason he was sore. Was he drunk? Is that why he couldn’t remember?

Anyway, recollections could be had at a later time. He focused his energy and got up. Every movement felt like a release. It was as though he had never stretched before. He savored the feeling. It was immensely pleasurable, as painful as it was. He placed his sunglasses on. Then, putting his arms over his head, he looked around, trying to figure out just where the hell he was.

Somewhere out in the country, that was a given. Probably way out. It was a little warm, but the mountains he saw still had vast snowcaps. Judging by the sun, after a careful glance, he guessed that they were east of him. They seemed to be a fair distance off. To the north, he saw a forest with at least two rivers flowing through it. There was land beyond the forest that looked plowed. Thank God for the small hill and the 20/20 vision. The west was the same forest with the same rivers, although he thought he could make out a road in the distance. And to the south, he saw the same forest with no road and no plowed fields.

Clark brought his hands to his sides. He felt himself beginning to panic and forced himself to take deep breaths. Counting them in. Counting them out. His mom showed him how to do that when he was a kid. It still worked. He felt his heart beat return to normal and he sat down, taking in the view.

Also…the smell. He hadn’t noticed it until the deep breaths, but there was something different in the air here. Nothing bad. In fact, quite the opposite…it felt good. The air was pure. More pure than any country air Clark had ever breathed. He looked and saw that the air was clear as well. No smog or any kind of pollution. He was lost in this for a half minute before bringing himself down to earth.

_Okay, Clark. Think. You don’t know where you are and you don’t remember how you got here. First thing’s first. Are you hurt?_

Clark quickly flexed his digits and gave himself a quick once-over.

_ No. Not that I can tell. Okay, next figure out where you are._

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He opened the Maps app and waited for the screen to load around his blue locator dot…and waited…and waited…

He sat there for a long time until he finally looked to see that he had no service. He sighed. He should have known. He placed the phone back in his pocket. No sense wasting the battery. He took out his keys. All of them still in order. Nothing missing. He put them back and lifted his right ass cheek to fetch his wallet. Same situation. Everything was there. He was relieved at least that nothing was stolen. He had his two credit cards and enough cash for food at any restaurant or convenience store he found.

Okay, so a full wallet, keys, enough battery power on the phone to use it when he could, sunglasses, good shoes on his feet and a rain jacket. He went through the list in his head as he stood up. Not the worst scenario to be in. Next step was to decide where to go. East to the mountains was not smart. The farms up north looked promising, but perhaps it wasn’t too bright to go straight there. The dirt road to the west was his best bet. Going through minimal foliage to reach whomever was working the fields. He ran his tongue over his teeth. His throat was a little parched but thankfully he wasn’t hungry and the weather was very fair. It was unlikely that he would perish under these conditions before he would reach someone who could help him.

With that in mind and not wanting to waste any more time, he set off down the hill, swinging his arms as he went. He stopped though before he reached the edge of the forest. Focusing so he wouldn’t veer off-kilter and fail to keep west. He just had to hit the road.

Refocused, he set off, placing his hands into the pockets of his rain jacket, feeling something curling around his left hand…

Clark stopped immediately, barely three steps into the forest. Slowly he moved his left hand around and relaxed. Whatever it was, it was inanimate. He closed his fingers around the object and retracted it. He stared. He was holding a rolled piece of parchment.

For a long time, he didn’t move. The birdsong was the only sound he heard. He swallowed. He knew that he didn’t put this in his pocket. He was sure despite everything.

Clark saw his fingers unfold the parchment and before he knew it, he was reading.

_To Clark,_

_ You can never return to the life you knew. You should accept that now if you can. This world is now your home, to live and die in. Abandon all hope of trying to return to your old world because it is impossible._

_ Your predicament is not my doing but I hope you will accept my condolences and forgive me for delivering this message._

_ I cannot tell you much about this new world of yours. All I can say is that you will find it frighteningly familiar. You will think yourself insane when you realize what this place is and what will that imply, but I tell you now, no matter what you see or experience, this world IS real. And you must take it seriously, in order to survive. If ever you wanted to be someone else, someone new; now is your chance._

_ I don’t have much time so I’ll write the rest quickly. First, in order to assist you, I’ve gifted you with some abilities to help you face the dangers you’ll face. Abilities which I’m afraid I cannot name, but you will have to discover. They will manifest over time. Some will take days, others weeks, months, even years. I know this is frustrating but they are there and they will help you. Please believe me._

_ Second, before you figure out what this world is, beware approaching anyone. You are an alien to them and if you act normally (or what passes for normal in your previous world), you will face dire consequences. Even if you don’t believe the first part of this message, please heed that warning at least._

_ There is so much more I want to say, but that will have to do. Please be careful and take caution. I know those mean the same thing, but you must do it._

_ Best of luck,_

_ A helping hand_

_ PS: Right where you woke up, dig. I left something for you._

_ PPS: I know this will not satisfy your curiosity and will probably enrage you even more, but I must say it. Do not wonder who I am. You will never find out. I’m not allowed to say. I’m not even in your world (the old one or the new). I’m just someone with too much power and yet not enough of it. I hope I have used it wisely. I hope you come out of this safely, Clark._

_ PPPS: You are NOT insane._

Clark stared at the letter, trying to make sense of what he just read. New worlds, abilities, dangers…what? He felt himself going toward one thing in the letter he could make sense of: he ran back to the top of the hill where he woke. He came to the spot, sliding onto his knee and running his fingers through the soft dirt. He dug for a short time before he caught a lace. He pulled and extracted a small pull-pouch from the earth.

He dusted off the pouch and opened it, spilling the contents onto his hands...coins. Silver and copper coins. He examined them, doing his mother’s breathing exercise all the while. He had nine silver coins, all of which featured a stag on one side. The copper pieces were a bit more diverse. He had four star ones. The rest varied in size but all had a seven pointed star on the back.

Clark took only a minute more before placing the coins back in the purse and pocketing it. He could figure out the currency later. Right now, he just had to keep moving. He forced himself not to run, forced himself to think about the letter. Was it real? Was this all a joke? He obviously wasn’t in Portland anymore, but not even in Maine? In the United States? On planet Earth? He was gone?

No, no, no, he thought as he reached the forest and walked westward through the brush. What other world had breathable oxygen? And a forest? And birds? Nothing in the nearby solar system. Certainly nothing he could travel to quickly and still be as young as he was.

Clark felt his hand tremble and calmed down. He was getting ahead of himself. He obviously didn’t travel through space. No matter what the reality was, he was here now, walking through a forest with no idea where he was. He needed to reach the road.

As he walked, he made another decision: despite the batshit insanity of the letter, it was a smart suggestion to avoid approaching strangers until he figured out what was going on. If nothing was up, worst case scenario is that he delays greeting friendly rural folk who would direct him to the nearest bus station. But if something was up…a little caution couldn’t hurt.

Speaking of which, he realized how loudly he was crashing through virgin forest and slowed down, quieting his step. His rain jacket was forest green and he was wearing dark brown khakis so he was a little camouflaged. He was thankful for that. He found himself wondering what world this was. The letter said he would recognize it. He would recognize a different world…having never been on any other world but Earth…this was so fucking stupid.

However he maintained his cautious approach, and after forty-five minutes (he checked the time on his phone), he found himself on the tree line besides the dirt road he saw from the hilltop. He peered north and south down the road. Nobody was coming, as far as he could see.

Gingerly he stepped on the road, as though it was going to explode under his feet. He gave a quivering chuckle and shook himself. He set off north, determined to get to the farms before dusk. He kept to the edge though, having made the decision to dive back into the foliage should he hear anyone coming.

He didn’t have to wait long. Coming from the north were the sounds of rolling wheels and the clip clop of hooves. Clark got himself under cover with plenty of time to spare. Didn’t stop his heart from beating fast enough to kick his ribs.

The source of the clip clops and the wheels came soon. Peering from his spot, Clark saw an old man and what looked to be his daughter atop a cart, being pulled by a donkey. There were sacks in the back. Both the old man and the woman were dressed in coarse material, him in trousers and tunic. She in a faded brown dress marked by work. Clark barely got a good look before they passed by, making good time. The clip clops faded and when Clark finally deemed it safe enough to emerge, they were disappearing around the bend, far away.

Clark continued to stare after them for far too long, before he turned north again. He forced himself to walk. They look like (he marveled that he was using this word seriously) peasants. Peasant farmers. And they weren’t costumed. They had to be real. Their faces were marked by the elements, the sun and wind. They weren’t using machinery with covering. They were driving a donkey, not a pickup. Has he smelled any gas since he’s been here?

He slapped himself in the face. Question for later.

His slap brought him down to reality. Good thing too, because he had just noticed noises coming from the south. He heard hooves. Many many hooves…

Clark dove into the bushes, praying none of them were poisonous and that he wasn’t seen diving like an idiot into them. He laid down flat, curling his head out just as far as he dared for a view. He felt vibrations through the earth. And sure enough, ten seconds later, a large group of horses were trotting quickly on the road, just below a gallop.

Moving his eyes up, Clark saw the horses carrying…knights…or least people in armor and boiled leather. He saw swords, shield, spears, bows and flags…flags of a white fish…a salmon on a red background…

Clark blinked several times. The salmon was still there and on the multiple flags carried by the company as they rode onward. He pinched himself hard. He realized his mouth was open and he couldn’t quite close it. There was no fucking way…

Eventually, the men rode on and the road became still and quiet again. Clark stayed on the ground. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He did it again and again and again until eventually he was able to sit up. He leaned against a tree.

_They are going to a location to shoot. They are a bunch of horse experts and riders and they are needed for a shoot. Or they’re shooting here. I just can’t see any crew members or equipment. That’s it. That’s it. It doesn’t matter that they finished shooting a year ago. Or that the show ended. Because if what I think is happening is happening, then I am insane. I don’t care what the letter says, I am insane, I’m fucking insane..._

He felt tears come to his eyes. He took several breaths and took out the purse, examining the coins again. Silver stags. Pennies. Copper stars…seven-pointed stars…

_Oh Christ…_

He had no idea how long he sat there, breathing deeply and allowing the occasional tear to roll down his cheek. Midday had turned into late afternoon when he wiped his face and stood up. He did feel a little better and he walked back to the road, looking to his rear for any approaching travelers. He wasn’t sure if he had entirely accepted this reality yet, but he was sure of one thing, he could not be caught in what he was wearing or with what he was carrying.

He walked for an hour more through the forest. Thankfully he encountered no one. The scariest moments being when he had to come two bridges with no cover either way. Eventually the forest gave way to open fields. Clark marked the spot mentally and set off along a road that sprang from the main one. He walked, keeping his eyes ahead and his ears to the back.

The road was getting smaller, turning into a trail. It was also getting muddy. He registered wheel marks and a few sets of boot prints. He froze.

_Shit._

He wheeled around and stared. His own boot prints were in the mud. Going back at least a hundred feet or so. And they looked very conspicuous, with lines and zigzags for grips. He was pretty damn sure no one had grips like these on their shoes in this medieval period.

Jumping on the grass besides the road, Clark looked around and found a thick stick. Making sure no one was really around; he went back, careful to avoid the mud. He began marking the ground and obscuring the boot prints. It wasn’t perfect and it still looked strange, but it couldn’t be made out to be strange alien footwear from the future at least.

When he was done, he marched right away, cursing himself for his stupidity and for losing time.

_No, that won’t do anything useful. Breathe, Clark. Damn it. Just breathe._

The rest of the walk was spent avoiding mud in addition for watching for fellow travelers. Thankfully it was a short walk. Clark soon rounded a corner and found himself facing a small cottage. He went immediately into the cover of the forest and made his way toward the property. Settling into the bushes, hidden from the trail and the farm, he waited.

The cottage was definitely lived in. There was smoke coming out of the chimney. Laundry was hung. The field next to the cottage looked maintained. The modest barn next to the house was not decrepit.

A woman came out of the cottage with a basket. She headed toward the hung laundry and put the basket down. She reached into the basket and pulled out a baby. She tickled the little one, cooing and making the babe laugh. Clark felt himself relax. He was lucky. First house he’s seen and she seemed a kind homeowner. She put the baby down on the ground and began to pile the laundry into the basket. She was just about to place the final shirt into the basket when a loud whistle pierced the air.

The woman turned west, to the corner in the road where Clark had turned previously. She smiled and began to wave. Clark looked to the corner himself and saw a man riding a cart, being pulled by a donkey. The man waved back and even from his distance, Clark could see the man smile.

Clark turned back to see the woman plop the baby back in the laundry basket on top of the fresh laundry. She made her way back in the house. The man was coming closer and Clark was able to make out his face. He looked very familiar…

He had seen this man before. Where? He racked his brain, trying to remember. Meanwhile, the farmer was turning into the pathway for his home. He pulled the reins, stopping the cart in front of the door. The woman came out and greeted him, as he jumped into the back of the cart and began handing the three covered baskets he had in the back to her. She took the baskets into the house and he walked over to the donkey and began to lead it toward the barn.

Clark watched the entire thing unfold and started to assess what his options were: Theft? Bribery? Death? He gave a brief snort to the idea that he could murder in cold blood. He wasn’t a killer. Not yet anyway. But he could be a liar.

His hands ran over his phone, wallet, sunglasses and keys; all in his pockets. He felt his clothes and their machine-stitched perfection that he could never explain. His shoes…

Right now the only things that he could possibly pass off in this world was the parchment note and the sack of coins, of which he still had no idea of their true value.

He watched as the man, who had placed the donkey inside the barn, came back outside and began washing his face. Clark took advantage of his distraction and walked quickly into the forest, counting his steps as he went, breaking a branch every so often to mark his path.

He walked for ten minutes before he stopped. He was calm. In fact, he was a little scared with how calm he was. He knew that eventually he would break down. He would face the overwhelming truth in due time. However for now, he had a clear task to distract him. He breathed. In, hold and then out. He repeated this twice, eyeing the reddening sky. It would be dark soon. He didn’t have much time.

Looking around to see that he was truly alone, he went about his task. He gathered as much tinder, kindling and dry wood as he could for a fire. He had no axe or saw to get the big logs that could really burn so he need a ridiculous amount of sticks. He would be here a while.

Once he gathered enough, or at least what he hoped was enough, he took the big stick he used to obscure his muddy boot prints and began to dig. He dug as fast as he could without losing his breath. He was still thirsty and he was beginning to sweat. He couldn’t afford to be dehydrated. Not now.

After fifteen minutes, with the stick broken twice, he was standing in a hole deep enough so that the ground was level with his knees. That was fine. He got out and began stacking the wood for a fire in the pit. The afternoons he spent with the Boy Scouts were coming back to him and he thanked his parents for forcing him to reach the Eagle rank and stick with it. Particularly for that one afternoon when they had to start a fire without any flint…

Clark took the dry tinder and two sticks. He arranged them with the tinder in between the two sticks for the friction point. Then he began to twirl. This was a long process and it took every ounce of patience that Clark had not to scream and give up. Digging the hole and stacking the firepit were easy. The important things here were preparation and persistence. He kept the driest materials he found. Kept building the friction. Kept twirling the sticks. Didn’t start cursing after ten minutes of twirling. Didn’t start panicking after twenty. Just kept going until…

He got smoke. He blew gently, encouraging the embers into a small flame. He brought the small flame to the kindling at the bottom of the pit. There were tense moments when he thought he would lose it, but finally it stabilized and he had a small fire going. He breathed deeply. That was not fun, but it was gratifying. He placed more sticks on top gently and brought the small fire to a raging medium one.

Clark sat for a minute. He was tempted to just watch his fire and let the evening come. He was very tired, but no. The sun was beginning to go down. He padded his pockets, taking out everything he had: his keys, wallet, sunglasses and phone.

He tossed the keys in first. They needed the most time, though he knew they wouldn’t melt entirely. At the least the plastic around the car keys would go. He took out his cash and place that in separately hoping for more kindling. He shook his head at the thought.

_More kindling for a raging fire. Jesus._

He put the wallet in, then his sunglasses. He hesitated with his phone. He scrolled through his downloaded music, trying to decide whether or not to quietly play a song for the last time. He would never hear the Princess Mononoke score again or Jimi Hendrix’s Band of Gypsies or a growling wail from Tom Waits.

He placed the phone diagonally against a tree, stood up and crushed it with his boot, breaking it in half. He pulled it apart and threw the pieces into the fire. He knew that if he started playing songs for the last time, he would never stop and his fire would be long gone.

He watched the items burn, the fire crackling around them. He fed more sticks to the fire before standing, steeling his mind for what he had to do. He took out the pouch of money and parchment, placing them on the ground. He looked to the sky and sighed.

Now for the fun part.

He started easy and took off his boots. He placed them around the edges of the fire and tented them with sticks, so the flames would travel over and consume them. Same thing for the raincoat. He didn’t know how well it could burn, but as least it would be destroyed. He took off his pants and placed them in as well, careful not to smother the fire. Luckily they caught fire quickly. Once they were sufficiently burned, he did the same for his shirt and socks. All the while he added more sticks to the areas covering his jacket and boots.

He put off the underwear until he had to. Finally there was nothing else for it. He stood and in clear view of anyone who would walk through this forest, he pulled off his boxers and tossed them on the flames. They caught fire and he spent another hour, or so he estimated, feeding the fire and shifting the items to ensure maximum destruction, trying to ignore the fact that he was naked. Which was a little difficult when sparks flew into the air.

When the fire had only a few more minutes before it would die out, Clark picked up the parchment note. He read it again. It wasn’t anything that would get him in a lot of trouble, but it was still something that could complicate his situation should anyone else read it. He crumpled the parchment and threw into the fire, hoping he was making the right choice.

Clark ran his stick through the ruins when the fire was out, well aware of the ash that was clinging to his legs. He wished he had better light. There were clumps of material here and there, but there weren’t too big and they were well destroyed. He stepped out and began piling the dirt back into the hole. When all the earth was replaced, he smoothed it as well as he could, throwing leaves and other debris on top and running the stick through that as well. He stood back. No trace was not exactly the case, but nobody was going to dig this place up. He hoped.

He leaned against a tree and breathed.

_All right. That’s done. I no longer look like an alien. I’m just a strange man with no clothes and a little money. Okay. Okay._

He picked up the purse, turned into the forest and began walking back, noting his marks and following their path. He stopped a stream halfway. Night was here, but the moon was full and out of the clouds now, so he was able to see with only a little difficulty. He rubbed his legs clean and rid himself of the ash as well he could.

Finally when he was clean enough, he picked up a small stone. He placed the small stone to his left eye. He hated himself for what he was about to do. But he needed it for his story. And holding it off won’t make it hurt any less.

He swung the stone down to his side and brought it up again quickly, hitting his cheek just below the eye. Not hard enough to break a bone, but still hard enough to leave a big mark. And to bleed. He threw the rock away and brought his hand cold from the stream water to his face.

“Fuuuuck,” he moaned lowly, allowing himself one curse. He kneeled in the dirt for a bit, gathering himself before lying down. He rolled once, twice before getting up and continuing.

It seemed to take longer getting back to the cottage. There was moonlight now, but still. He had no footwear or anything else. He carried the purse in one hand and he pressed his eye with the other until finally he came to the road. He paused in the tree line, peering at the farm. There was firelight coming from the inside. Clark sighed.

_All right. Dear Lord, please don’t let me fuck this up_.

Checking to make sure that no one was coming on the road, he crossed it and made his way to the door, noting the cart that was off to the side.

He paused before the door. Judging by the fact that they were still talking, they hadn’t heard him approach. Remembering where he was, he wondered if he should affect an accent. He lived in Maine, but he grew in the Pacific Northwest. He spoke pretty flatly. He did speak some German though, and a few of the actors in the show were German. Maybe he could…

He grimaced and snapped out of it. There was no time for that. And in any case, he couldn’t keep up the accent.

_You’re a foreigner, Clark. From here on in, you’re a foreigner. You can’t hide it. So embrace it. Don’t flaunt it though. And stop lingering on their doorstep naked!_

He took a deep breath and knocked. He didn’t wait for an answer as he immediately ran to the cart, going behind it. His bare ass was presented to the road but at least he was hidden from the couple inside.

He waited a little while before the door opened. Obviously no one visits these people at night. The man stepped out and peered, seeing no one.

“Hello?” he called.

Clark gritted his teeth.

_Oh fuck me, here we go._

“Hello. Over here,” he called back, trying to put fatigue and desperation in his voice. It wasn’t too difficult. The farmer snapped his head to the cart and his eyes found Clark’s.

“Hello. I'm sorry to bother you, but I was set upon by bandits and I need some help. Could you help me please?”

The farmer took a few steps forward.

“Why are you behind the cart?”

Clark took a breath. “Well sir,” he said before cursing himself. _Shit, don’t call him sir. The only Sers here are actual knights_. “Well friend, to be completely honest, I’m naked. I’m no danger to anyone. But I…I am naked.”

There was a short silence. The wife came out cautiously.

“Why are you naked?” the farmer asked, sounding very confused.

“I was set upon by bandits. And being outnumbered and a bit cowardly, I ran into the forest. When I got out of their sight, I put my coin in a rabbit hole and ran on, until they caught up to me. When they searched me and saw I had no purse, they stripped me and gave me a light beating before leaving me in the forest. I think they were annoyed that I had led them on a chase for no reason.”

The farmer and his wife were silhouetted by the firelight behind and Clark couldn’t make out their faces. He pressed on.

“Look, I retrieved my purse when they were gone and I’ve been walking for a long time. I’m so sorry I disturbed you and your wife’s evening. But if you had some clothing you could spare, a meal, water or any of the three, I’d be very grateful. I could paid you for your trouble.”

The crickets were the only sound for a long time. Clark held his breath, realizing he probably should have scoped out a few more farms and seen which one seem the most amiable. He hoped that his initial feeling was true…

The farmer went back to his wife and they muttered to each other before she went back inside and he turned back to Clark.

“No need for payment, friend. You stay there and I'll bring you some clothes. My wife just did some laundry. After you’re dressed, you can come on in and take supper with us.”

Clark sighed in relief. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” The farmer’s wife came back out with a shirt and trousers and handed them to the farmer before going back in. The farmer approached the cart and tossed the clothing to Clark. Clark quickly dressed, slightly registering the roughness of the fabric but he didn’t care. He was clothed.

He stepped out and shook the farmer’s hand.

“Thank you.”

The farmer smiled. “Don’t mention it. You’re tall. They may not fit well, but you covered at least.”

Clark smiled and followed the farmer into the cottage. He felt the warmth wash over him like water. His eyes fell on the table. They had already eaten, but the wife was spooning stew into another bowl. She turned, pointing at the table.

“Come on, sit,” she said, her eyes as kind as her husband’s. Clark nodded and sat down. A cup of water was placed before him. He nodded at the farmer.

“Thank you,” he said, before drinking gingerly. He knew better than to gulp water down when one was dehydrated.

The farmer sat down opposite him. “That’s a nasty cut to your face. And a mark to go along with it.”

Clark shrugged. “Could have been worse.”

“Aye, it could have. Still, we could bandage that later.”

Clark nodded. “Thank you.”

The farmer waved his hand. “And stop thanking me. It’s the way of Seven, to look after unfortunate travelers.”

A cry echoed from a small cot in the room. The farmer got up and picked up the small child, patting her back gently.

Clark took a small sip of water. “How old is she?”

“Eight moons,” said the wife, as she placed a bowl of stew before him.

“She’s beautiful,” said Clark, his mind wandering for a phrase. “Seven blessings.”

The wife smiled. “Thank you.” She sat down at the table, sighing. She looked exhausted.

The stew looked delicious, but Clark didn’t eat right away. Thinking he looked hokey, but he did it anyway, he bowed his head, folded his hands under the table and began muttering under his breath. It seemed like a good thing to do in front of his saviors. Plus he had plenty of experience pretending to pray from his childhood.

When he was finished, he picked up his spoon and began to eat, as politely as he could. The wife was appraising him.

“Are you a man of faith?”

_Nope._

Clark shook his head. “Just on my own time.”

“Hmm,” the wife said. She reached over and ran his finger gently over the cut under the eye. “Not too bad. You don’t need a stitch. But I should clean it.”

She got and began putting strips of cloths in the boiling water. Clark turned his attention to the baby.

“She got a name?” he asked, before inserting more stew in his mouth. It was really delicious.

“Sally,” the farmer said proudly, rocking her gently.

It was a good thing that the husband and wife were distracted at the moment, because Clark felt a look of shock run across his face and he was sure he looked horrified. He put his face back to normal before the farmer made eye contact again.

It was one of those annoying things about his memory. He wasn’t a fanatic about the show. He really enjoyed it, even loved it, but it’s been years since he read the books and he wasn’t an expert on everything that Martin put into the story or every detail in the show. However, sometimes he just held on to a certain fact or piece of trivia. For no reason that he could fathom. And right now, he remembered. He remembered why the farmer looked so familiar. This farmer was the same farmer that would be robbed of his silver by Sandor Clegane. His daughter was named Sally.

He glanced at the stew. Rabbit stew. The same stew that the little babe in her father’s arms would learn how to make. Taught by her mother probably, who was still alive. But they would all die. Sooner than they thought. Sally in her father’s arms, decomposing…

Clark swallowed his stew and continued to eat mechanically. He knew he had to eat, but still his mind wandered. He had held onto the belief still that this was all bullshit. That he was insane for burning and burying his possessions and that these medieval farmers were friendly nutjobs who wanted to get back to the olden times.

But no. He was truly in Westeros. Sometime before the show began. And it was all real. It was his world now. He was in Westeros. He had to live the rest of his life in Westeros...

_Son of a bitch._

If the farmers mistook his silent whirlwind of emotion as him being tired, he let them make that assumption. He actually was exhausted. Nobody said anything more as Clark ate. The wife brought out a few slices of the densest bread Clark had ever tasted. After another cup of water, Clark was quite satiated.

The wife came over with the hot cloths and a bottle of something.

“Come, sit over here,” she said. Clark got up, realizing just how much taller he was before sitting down before the light of the fire. She grabbed his face gently and pressed a cloth to the wound, wiping away the dirt.

“Your husband tells me you did laundry today, yes?” said Clark, trying not to wince.

“I did.” She finished wiping and was now dabbing a dry cloth with whatever was in the bottle.

“I’m wearing your fresh clothes and getting them dirty again. I’m sorry.”

The wife shrugged and pressed the cloth to the cut. It stung and Clark shut his eyes trying to maintain some dignity. The ointment smelled nice though.

“We work the land, stranger. My husband and I aren’t afraid of dirt. And as handsome as you are, I don’t think I’d appreciate seeing you naked in my house. Think nothing of it.”

Clark smiled. He liked this family. He tried not to think about their future. The wife washed the wound again and left him by the fire. The farmer approached him.

“Would you care for an ale? Or would you prefer to go to bed?”

Clark considered the ale. He would have loved any booze at the moment. But for now, he felt tired. More tired than he had ever been in his entire life.

“I think I just want to sleep now.”

The farmer nodded. “Right. Follow me.”

Clark and the farmer walked outside and to the barn. The smell of animal hit Clark pretty hard, but it was warm and he was tired enough. The farmer handed him a coarse blanket.

“You can sleep there,” he said pointing at the haystack. “Or there,” pointing at the wooden loft. “Or anywhere you find comfortable. Just beware of Strawback here,” he said, patting the sleepy donkey. “He’s a fine barnmate, but he needs his space. My wife and I are having a rest day tomorrow. I sold our harvest today in town. Wake up when you feel like and join us for a meal. Sleep well.”

The farmer walked out and Clark fumbled his way to the loft. The wooden surface was not the greatest mattress but he was too tired to care. He pulled the blanket over himself as well as he could and closed his eyes.

Maybe he would wake up on another hill. In Maine. Or somewhere where he didn’t have to walk naked to avoid seeming crazy.

Strawback gave a sneeze. That was the last thing that Clark heard before falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's chapter number one! I'm sure everyone's definition of a slow burn is different, but I definitely consider this fanfic to be one. Clark will meet the main characters in a few chapters and the perspective will change from time to time, but for now, Clark has to live in Westeros. We'll see how he does.
> 
> Please leave a comment or give a kudos if you wish! If not, that's perfectly fine. It's your time on the archive. Have a good day!


	2. Chapter Two

Clark kept his eyes closed for a solid minute when he woke. He hoped to find himself back in his own bed or even in the hospital, recovering from the most convincing hallucination he’d ever experienced. However he felt the coarseness of the blanket and the wooden planks below. This didn’t feel like his queen mattress or a hospital bed. He cursed and opened his eyes.

Dust floated through the air, illuminated by the sunrise streaming in through the window and door. Strawback was swatting flies in his sleep. Clark got up, folding the blanket before he climbed down. He exited the barn, feeling the cool dew on the grass beneath his feet, which was quite pleasurable. There was smoke coming from the cottage and early morning birdsong from the forest. He went around the side of the barn into the nearby trees. He urinated for a solid time, wiping his hands on some morning dew to clean them.

Going back in front of the barn, he managed to find some dry ground and proceeded with his usual morning stretches. He took his time and for ten minutes, he was completely alone. There was no one else in the world. Not the farmer and his family. Not the Tullys or the Starks or the Targaryens across the sea. Not the White Walkers…

He shuddered and brought himself back to full height, giving his back one last stretch before relaxing. Right now he couldn’t plan long term when he had no plans for the short term. So what to do today? Just today. He pondered for a while and considered just leaving the farmer and his wife with no word. But he had no idea where he was to find food that day and they were friendly enough.

First thing’s first. He strode to the door and knocked gently. The farmer opened the door, greeting him amiably. He saw the wife breastfeeding the babe. He nodded politely and averted his eyes. He was guided to the table and poured a cup of ale.

“Eat, please,” said the farmer, placing some bread and cheese before him.

“Thank you,” said Clark. He ate bit by bit. He knew the food was safe, but he wasn’t sure how his stomach would react to it. Best to eat slowly and be safe for now.

“So,” said the farmer, sitting down with his own cup. “What’s your plan for today? Where were you headed to before you were attacked?”

Clark chewed slowly and swallowed.

“I don’t know. I worked a ship for a year and only came ashore two months ago. Wasn’t thinking of the future, to be honest.” He drank some ale. “Could use some work though.”

“Well, it’s autumn now, so you’ll be finding plenty of work through the Riverlands with the harvest. North might be good too. Never been there though. I’d offer to bring you on here but I couldn’t pay you. Besides, the farm’s small enough that we don’t need the help.”

Clark smiled. “No worries. I’m grateful for what you’ve given me already.” He rubbed his face, feeling the days that he neglected to shave. He took a breath, making up his mind for now. “I believe I want to head north in the next few days.”

He supposed that was safe. It was autumn now, so he would have at least one non-wight winter before the long summer when the show began. In any case, it was years before any dead men roamed. It would be safe enough, or so he hoped. He continued.

“So I would like to get to the Kingsroad. But for now, I need to get some clothes so I can return yours and boots as well. Do you know somewhere I can go to purchase them?”

The wife spoke from her chair. “Fairmarket isn’t too far from here. It’s right by the Blue Fork and only a few hours by cart. You’ll find what you need there.”

Clark stared. “The Blue Fork?”

“Of the Trident,” she said. If she found his question odd, she didn’t show it.

The farmer leaned back. “Tell you what, I can take you to Fairmarket by cart. I can’t do it today because Strawback’s too tired. He’s an old donkey. But I can do it tomorrow. And while we’re there, after you have your own clothes, I’ll point you in the direction of the Kingsroad.”

Clark fought to keep his voice casual. “Is it far from Fairmarket?”

“It’s a night on the road, but bearable. The real trouble is when you get on the Kingsroad itself. You could spend a few months walking that. All the way to the Wall if you want!”

The farmer laughed. Clark only managed a small grin.

“So what do you say? Tomorrow?”

Placing his cheese down, Clark tried to be polite. “Are you sure? That’s an awful lot of traveling back and forth for just me. It’s quite a bit of trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I forgot some things in town anyway, as my beautiful wife was happy to tell me after you went to bed,” he said, shooting a playful glare at his wife, who promptly ignored him.

Clark finished the ale. “Thank you. I mean it. Is there anything around here that I can help you with today? I may not be much of a farmer, but I can lift.”

The farmer shook his head. “Not this morning, no. We’re resting now. But in the afternoon, I might need some help putting the barn in order. It was a good harvest, but I allowed the mess to build.”

Shaking off questions about seasonal farming in a world where seasons were vastly inconsistent, Clark stood.

“In that case, I want to go out to the place where I was attacked and see if I missed anything. Maybe the bandits dropped my clothes and I won’t have to purchase new ones.”

“Well now,” said the farmer standing. “I don’t like the idea of you going alone and barefoot into the forest where bandits are lurking. I’m not a fighter, but I can come for the numbers. Other than that, I think you should just consider your clothes lost. You have your purse and your life. Best not to risk them again.”

Clark moved to the door. “I appreciate your concerns, but I’ll be all right. I’ll be back in an hour. Miss,” he said, nodding to the wife. He shut the door before anyone could say another word.

_Do people say ‘Miss’ here?_

Whatever, that wasn’t important. He had clear daylight now and he wanted to check his handiwork. To make sure his charred possessions would never be dug up. He followed the broken branches and soon found himself at the site. He looked at the ground. It really wasn’t bad. In fact, there was actually little trace of the fire. He looked around. The most conspicuous thing was that he tore off every branch he could find in the near vicinity. However there was nothing he could do about that. He spread the leaves around a bit more naturally. He walked across the dirt. He really hoped he was able to judge correctly. But when he looked at the spot where he had burned and buried his previous life, it honestly looked any other forest floor.

Satisfied as much as he could be, Clark returned to the farm. He washed in the basin and walked along the fields. The farmer and his wife were kind but he needed to be alone. He needed his mind cleared and focused. He needed to figure out what to do.

Unfortunately he did not accomplish that in his walk around the fields. He went through as much trivia in his mind as he could about Westeros, the ruling families, the histories but he was really out of his element. He didn’t even know what year it was. He tried to think how old Sally was in season four. Ten? Eleven? Maybe? How much time passed between the first and fourth season? How many…?

Eventually Clark threw a stone into the forest and collapsed under the shade. He stared at the sky and put all these thoughts out of mind. He needed clothes and boots first. He needed to get to Fairmarket.

He laid in the shade for a while, before wandering back to the barn. The farmer was already there. For the remaining afternoon, Clark and the farmer organized and cleaned the barn from one end to another. Clark was grateful for the work. It was the same with the fire yesterday. He just needed a task to distract himself. When he would be traveling, alone with his thoughts, that would be the real challenge.

The wife brought a fresh basin out and left to tend to Sally. The farmer stripped down and washed himself. Clark did the same, but kept his back toward the farmer. It was only a quick rinse though. After they were clean enough, they dressed and went inside for dinner, which consisted of mutton (though Clark didn’t realized that it was mutton until halfway) and milk.

Clark realized to his slight horror, that his diet would be severely limited for the rest of his life. A lot of meat. A lot of diary. A lot of grain. And a lot of ale. All good things that Clark liked. But he wondered how he would fare when the sugar withdrawal really kicked in. Just how expensive was fruit anyway?

He stayed up with the farmer and his wife that night, drinking some ale. Clark only accepted one cup. He knew they were poor. And that made his next question more uncomfortable, but he had to ask it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins he had selected before dinner.

“I need your help, if I may ask for even more,” he asked quietly.

“Certainly, fellow,” said the farmer. “What ails you?”

Clark placed the different coins on the table. There were all copper coins.

“I’m a foreigner. I’m sure you’ve guessed that and I don’t know your coins well. The golds and the silvers are easy. They have the symbols on the side. And this one is a star, I see. But the rest I don’t know. I know there are pennies and halfpennies, but that’s all. The amounts are confusing too. Would you teach me please, how it works?”

The fire crackled. Clark hoped that these two didn’t question how this stranger could have survived two months in Westeros without knowing the coins or why a sailor wouldn’t have learned the currency before he landed ashore. But thankfully no suspicion crossed their faces.

The wife picked up the second biggest copper.

“For all the coppers,” she said. “Each one is worth twice the next coin down. This is a grout.” She picked up the bigger copper star. “A star is two grouts.” She continued to pick up each coin as she spoke. “A grout is two halfgrouts. A halfgrout is two pennies. A penny is two halfpennies…but you don’t have any halfpennies.”

She got up and went to the shelf, taking one coin out of a pouch stored there. Sitting back down, she presented the coin to Clark. “One halfpenny. Go on. You can hold it.”

Clark looked at the halfpenny and gave it back. He viewed all the coins lined up. Coppers were a two-to-one system. Simple enough.

“As for the silvers,” said the wife continuing. “There are moons and stags. One silver stag is worth seven copper stars. One silver moon is worth seven stags.”

Clark nodded. He had nine stags in his purse. He hoped that would be enough until he could earn some money somehow.

“And the top coin,” the wife said, her energy coming a bit down. “I’ve never had one meself. I’ve seen them though. At tourneys, the market and such. Gold dragons. A gold dragon is worth thirty silver moons.”

Sitting back, Clark rubbed his chin. He picked up the coins and placed them back in the purse. No one spoke for a while. Clark finished his ale and stood. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver stag, which he placed on the table. The farmer and his wife stared at the coin. Clark saw them draw their breath to protest and spoke first.

“Stop. You’ve helped me more…more than you could possibly know yesterday and today and tomorrow when we ride to Fairmarket. You’ve clothed me and fed me and I will never forget that. Please for my sake, take the coin. Besides,” he added with a grin, “if you refuse to touch it, I’m just going to leave it here on the table. It will be here tomorrow when I leave. Good night.”

He walked out before they could say another word. The barn’s smell was still overwhelming, but it was clean now. He found his spot on the loft and settled down, trying hard not to think about the silver stag he had just relinquished. He hoped he wouldn’t regret giving it away. He wondered if that silver stag would be part of the silver that Sandor would steal in the future, if it would past to Arya and then into the canals of Braavos to be forgotten forever. Maybe. Maybe it all depended on what he decided to do.

He turned over and made a silent promise. That was to be the last blind charitable deed he would do in Westeros. He needed what coins he had badly and he wasn’t sure how soon he would be able to replace the silver that he just gave away.

He pulled the blanket over himself and sighed. He really wanted to brush his teeth.

* * *

The farmer came into the barn the next morning to hitch Strawback up for the ride. The donkey did not appear happy for the trip and he was gifted with a turnip for his cooperation. Clark climbed down and offered to help, but he was waved away and told to go eat.

He had a quiet breakfast with the farmer’s wife. They didn’t talk but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Most of the conversation was provided by Sally on her mother’s lap. Clark watched her for a while and tried to keep his thoughts from the image of her corpse swallowed by winter. He’d walked over her future grave multiple times. He wondered where they buried the mother…

Thankfully his thoughts were interrupted by the farmer, who came in to say that the cart was ready. Carrying a small lunch in a cloth, Clark climbed aboard. The wife came up to him and handed him a full waterskin.

“Thank you,” said Clark.

“That’s yours when you move on,” she replied.

Clark began to shake his head. “That’s too kind. You mustn’t…”

“We’ve accepted your silver coin so please accept our waterskin. I have two more in the back. We’ve enjoyed your company and we were happy to have you.”

“Thank you. I was happy to be here.”

“And should you ever come through here again, stop by and see us if you can spare a visit.”

Clark nodded. “I will. Thank you.”

The wife smiled. “Who knows? Perhaps next time, you’ll grace us with your name. I’m Kerry, by the way. My husband’s name is Cullen.”

Clark looked at the woman. She didn’t break her eye contact and waited patiently for his response. In truth, he had been thinking about his name since yesterday. It wasn’t that he particularly liked or disliked the name Clark. He didn’t think it sounded too out of place in Westeros. But keeping it…made him wary somewhat. As though if he were to truly live in this world for the remainder of his life, he would have to cut all ties with his old one. His possessions, his career…and possibly his name too. Else he would forever be pining to return when he was told it was impossible.

But what was to be his new name? He went through names that sounded cool that no one here would know the story behind, which he claim for himself. Fictional characters. Shere Khan was a great name and no one here would connect the moniker to a man-eating tiger. He could be Mercutio or Caesar or Odin. He could take the name Gabriel and be a guardian angel to this world or Lucifer and leave it to be damned. However, through his musings, he thought of a story he once read. The story included a blind prophet who wandered into the kingdom of Thebes and saw the underlying catastrophe that was waiting to explode. This blind prophet warned the king, but the king would not heed his warning and he suffered the consequences, blinding himself. Clark thought of this prophet and hoped he would have better luck in these seven kingdoms.

And so he gave his new name.

“My name is Tiresias. Thank you for everything, Kerry.”

Kerry nodded. “Farewell, Tiresas. We’ll pray for you. Wherever you may be.”

Clark nodded back and offered his hand to shake, hoping that women did such things here. Kerry looked a little surprised but accepted it with grace. Cullen climbed into the cart and grabbed the reins.

“Here we go.” He snapped the reins and the donkey started to walk. Soon Clark saw the farm disappear with Kerry waving goodbye. He waved back, silently wishing her a painless death. They rounded the corner and she was gone.

The trip was boring. No two ways about it. There were only so many trees to look at and it was slow moving as Strawback settled into a steady walk. Eventually Clark asked how the reins worked and the next hour riding was spent with him holding the reins. He hoped he hadn’t added any time to their trip. However thankfully, Fairmarket was only a few hours away and they arrived just around noon, or midday as noon would now be known from here on in.

Clark jumped down from the cart, ignoring the sad thought that he would never drive fast again or at all and thought of his task. He looked around, getting his first look at a real Westerosi town. There were yells about the place, each merchant competing against the others. It also stank. He realized how ridiculous he looked. He was significantly taller than Cullen and the clothes showed it. Cullen tied Strawback to the post and walked over to Clark.

“Town too big?”

Clark shrugged. “Just unfamiliar,” he said. “So, does Fairmarket live up to its name or do I have to keep my eyes on the prices?”

“Nah, prices are fair enough. But I’ll go with you just the same. No sense wandering around trying to find the best. Well, the best for us anyway. You’re not a secret prince, are you?”

“No.”

Cullen nodded. “Good. Then you can get boots here.”

And so, Clark, with the help of Cullen, got himself a pair of leather boots. He paid three stags for them. Which irritated him until he realized that that was probably the most expensive thing he’d buy and Cullen assured him that was a good deal. He wished they had laces though instead of buckles. As for the clothing, Cullen took him to the central marketplace in the village where a sheepherding family had set up a stand. The women of the family took their wool and made clothing with it. It was rudimentary but it served its purpose. Clark was able to get thin burgundy hose that doubled as underwear and socks, dark tan trousers and a forest-green long sleeved shirt. They were cheaper than he expected, but he supposed dyes were not too expensive. At least some dyes weren’t.

Plus he was able to get a straw hat, though he was a little late for that. He had already turned pink from yesterday. He also was tempted to skip the cloak, as it was a little warm, but he remembered that he was heading up North when it was autumn. He would be freezing in months. So he purchased a dark blue cloak.

Cullen stood guard while Clark changed and gave him back the borrowed tunic and trousers. He was grateful for the lack of mirrors, as he was sure he looked ridiculous.

There were other things that needed to be purchased besides clothes. He stopped at the blacksmith and bought a small knife and belt. Not enough to wage war but good for carving and small tasks. He also bought flint and steel for starting fires, not wanting a repeat of the first night. He hesitated about buying a straight razor, but in the end he gave in. He needed some ritual to keep him sane and although he could grow a full beard rather quickly, he enjoyed the breeze on his face.

His last purchase was a small rucksack to keep this all in. He folded the blue cloak tightly and placed it in as well. Sensing that he was starting to get a reputation for big spending, he and Cullen rode out a little quickly. They traveled east along the Blue Fork and came to a fork in road, one continuing along the Fork, the other back to the farm.

They paused here to eat their lunch. Clark ate slowly, not wanting to leave one of the few kind people he knew in this world, but he knew Cullen had to get back. He shook the farmer’s hand.

“I know you said to stop thanking you, but I need to say it again: thank you.”

“You’re welcome. We enjoyed your company.”

Clark looked at the empty cart. “And the supplies you forgot?”

Cullen shrugged. “I’ll get them when I need them. Safe travels, Tiresias.”

Clark tried to think what he could say to Cullen to make his future easier. About the Hound and the small girl who would come along. About his wife’s death. About the coldest winter in living memory. Instead he merely nodded, thanked him again and before he knew it, he was alone, with the donkey and cart disappearing around the bend.

Clark stood and observed the Blue Fork for a minute. Eventually he just sat down. He had his clothes and his purse. What now? Was he really headed for the North? What for? What did he plan to do? Wouldn’t it be better to just head south? Catch a ship to the Summer Isles and hide for the next decade while shit went down? Why not drink himself to death? It was better than dying in the cold or in war. Yes, he loved the characters in the show, but that was a show. It wasn’t real. He didn’t owe anyone anything. What the hell could he possibly do?

He thought back to the House of Black and White and a small girl asking the guard to let her in, that she had no where else to go and the guard simply replied, “You have everywhere else to go.”

Clark had everywhere else to go. He was nobody here, only a stranger with a false name that no one else knew or cared for. That was a freedom that both terrified and excited him. When he got to the Kingsroad, he could fuck off forever and no one would be the wiser. No one but him…

Images of the atrocities in the show flashed through his mind: The destruction of the Riverlands, Ned’s beheading, Shireen’s burning, the Red Wedding, the Free Folk lost to the Army of the Dead, the North under siege and under Bolton rule, blue fire, King’s Landing…he knew it wasn’t fair. He didn’t belong here. He shouldn’t be expected to make a difference. But he was here. For better or worse.

He picked up a rock and tossed it in the river. Christ, morality was a fucking bear. He stood up and started walking along the Fork, which would take him to the Kingsroad.

This was by no means over in his mind. He still didn’t know what he would do. But as with the destruction and burial of his former life and the acquirement of a new guise, he had a task for himself:

Below the North, there was the Neck and in the Neck was a reclusive little bastard (_not really, a lord but still_) who had greensight. Perhaps Howland Reed knew about him already. He would try to speak to Lord Reed. Then if all seemed well, he would worry about Ned Stark and his family and the icy blue eyes beyond the Wall.

He shifted his rucksack. _Besides_ he thought, _if I travel to Winterfell months from now and I’m laughed out, I’ll have plenty time before shit hits the fan to leave this fucking continent._ _That is, unless they kill me first for being insane…I really need to work on my opening statement…also earn enough coin for better clothes._

_Jesus Christ, these hose are itchy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's clothed, he's named and he's off to find a crannogman.
> 
> Thank you for the kudos last chapter and for reading this one. I plan to update next Monday with Chapter Three!
> 
> Have a good week!


	3. Chapter Three

For three months in his early twenties, Clark backpacked alone throughout Europe. And though he never really passed for European (something about his gait), he was left alone. He had developed a face and an energy that he used to deter any unwanted attention: eyes that were dulled of any excitement belonging to a tourist. A pace that was decisive but not too quick, so he actually looked like he knew where he was going. Before approaching anyone with a question, he observed others to see if they answered his question without knowing it. He used this a lot finding sources of clean water on the Kingsroad, following others to wells and such.

And he kept his mouth shut, breathing only through his nose. He didn’t exactly know why, but a lot of tourists were mouth-breathers. Also he realized that he shouldn’t readily show his teeth, which were unnatural straight and white, thanks to modern orthodontics and dentistry. Although maybe not for long. He didn’t have his retainer anymore.

All of these methods he used in his journey north on the Kingsroad and they worked for the most part. The travelers he met kept to their own business and at worst, only a few gave a nod, which he returned. But he did not talk to anyone. He wished to avoid any questions about his accent. When he came to an inn for some food, he stuck to “Aye” and “Thanks” in a vague English tone and that seemed to do the trick. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to keep a distance.

Travelers were much more frequent on the Kingsroad then they were on the first road where he had walked with his modern clothing. He wondered if whoever gave him that note and purse also arranged for him to wake up in an isolated location. He pushed the thought out whenever it came. It was no use wondering about such things.

His mind did wander though. He couldn’t help it. The breakdown he predicted came during the first evening alone on the road. Sleep just wouldn’t come and he thought of his old life now gone forever. He would no longer hike with his dad. No more talking with his mom whenever things got to be too much. His sister and her husband and their children. He never got the chance to be the fun uncle. His friends…

He cried that night. He didn’t try to stop and when the sunrise finally came, it seemed like an eternity had passed. Having not slept the whole night, Clark stumbled onto the road and continued. He collapsed that evening and slept fitfully, almost against his will. He still wept occasionally, but less and less as the days went on.

Luckily he had plenty of distractions on the road. More than he thought. Despite the general paranoia of being a stranger in a strange land, he found himself generally enjoying his walk when he wasn’t crushed under his despair. The scenery was lovely. He spotted numerous house banners. He was enjoying the expectation of ale at every meal. He wasn’t a big drinker back home, but still. It was fun, for lack of a better word.

He tried not to indulge though. Meals at the inns were not expensive, but he still looked at his purse with an increasing worry. What trade could he possibly pass off? He supposed he could do day labor if that was still a thing. He had a friend back home, the son of a farmer, who said farming was essentially taking things from one pile and moving them to another pile.

Now he was sure the friend was simplifying to a ridiculous degree, but still if he had to move piles for quick coin, he could do it. He could read and write though and he had to think that was not too common for those outside the nobility. Maybe he could do something with that…

However he was okay for now. He ate sparingly at the inns. He didn’t pay for rooms, electing to sleep outside. He bathed in the Fork in the evenings when there were fewer travelers. He tried to ignore the voice in his head warning him of real bandits and animals ready to kill. Keeping a close watch on his surroundings, he stole fruit from an orchard. He savored the fructose, feeling himself go momentarily stupid from the sugar. That was a good fix but he was careful not to do it too often. He didn’t want to be caught and lose a hand or be sent to the Wall or something. Then again, he was tempted for the ride alone. He underestimated the sheer size of the country and especially how long it took to get anywhere just walking.

That thought consumed him late in the afternoon of the sixth day. Clark stopped by the side of the road and sat on a log to catch his breath, holding his stomach. The inns were offering only muttons and stews. He didn’t allow himself to despair at the limited culinary, but he did grumble a bit. He was also hitting the expected sugar crash. He felt pretty low energy the last few days. He was also sweating a lot more than he should have been. He supposed in the long run, it would be worth it and he was ridding his body of an addictive substance. He still wanted some rainbow sherbet though.

He took a swig of water before getting up to continue, willing himself not to scratch his crotch.

The clothes hadn’t become any less itchy but Clark told himself that he was getting used to it. It was a needed lie. Thankfully the clothes did their part. He was just an anonymous traveler on the Kingsroad and no longer had to dive into the bushes whenever anyone approached.

Late in the evening, he came upon an inn and went in for some supper. He hadn’t stopped for lunch, electing to chew some dried beef he bought for a halfpenny from a passing butcher. At least he hoped it was beef. He took off his hat and wiped his brow. He felt quite warm from the walk.

The serving girl (Clark didn’t have the courage to yell “Tavern Wench” yet) came over to him with a cup and a smile.

“Hello,” she said, placing the cup down in front of him.

Clark nodded. “’Lo. How are you?” he added automatically before cursing himself.

She stared a little before responding. It was probably the first time today she was asked that.

“I’m all right…You?”

Clark swallowed. “Good.”

She nodded, laughing a bit. “Good. Ale? Water? Wine? We have a little mead left.”

Clark pulled his waterskin strap off his shoulder. “Ale for the cup, please and if you could fill this with water,” he said, handing her the waterskin, “I’d appreciate it.”

She took the skin. “I can do that. You want anything to eat? We have chicken and apple sausages. Mutton. Some eggs. And bread. Rye and sour. We do have stew but honestly I don’t know what sort of meat is in it.”

Clark was tempted by the chicken and apple sausages but he knew that would be the most expensive item. He ordered two hard-boiled eggs, some mutton and some rye bread that he could use for his breakfast. The tavern girl walked back with his order and returned later with his full waterskin and pitcher of ale. She filled his cup.

“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip.

She looked at him. She was still smiling, but she looked suspicious. She looked around the tavern, making sure that no one was flagging her down before she turned back to Clark. She placed the pitcher and the skin on the table but remained standing.

_Shit._

“You’re a polite one,” she said.

Clark shrugged, placing his cup down, willing his hand not to shake.

“Not some lord in disguise, are you?” she asked, her eyes teasing.

He gave a light laugh, shaking his head, hoping to God he looked casual.

“No, I’m not.”

Her smile grew. “No? You sip like one. You’re shaved. Clean. Handsome. Those clothes look new. You just skipped down to market and buy some peasant wear?”

Clark kept his own smile, refusing to panic. “I was robbed of my clothes only a few days ago. Everything but my purse.”

She laughed. “What?”

“I hid it. They were lousy bandits. I had to get new clothes and it cost me almost every coin I had. All I have is before you. You’re lucky I’m able to eat here.”

That was too much. He had talked too much. The girl was entertained though.

“I’m only teasing! I know you ain’t no lord.”

“How’s that?” he asked.

Before she could answer, a man shouted across the inn.

“Oi, girl! Could we get some fucking ale here? Tonight? We’re thirsty!”

Laughter and whistles followed the man’s shout. He turned to see a group of soldiers sitting across the room. Red-faced and full of an energy that made Clark’s skin crawl. He couldn’t place their banner, a white catfish in front of several colors. To her credit, the girl didn’t even flinch. She simply nodded to the group and looked back. Her smile was gone.

“You actually look at me. You talk to me. Lords yell like him,” she said.

Clark glanced at the man who shouted and then back to her.

“He’s no lord.”

She picked up the pitcher. “He acts like one.” And with that, she strode over to the table of laughing soldiers. Clark sipped his ale and watched, he hoped, inconspicuously.

She handled them well. Or at well as she could. She didn’t apologize. She just went about and filled their cups. Comments were made. More than one of the men grabbed her ass, but she promptly ignored it and moved on, her face a mask. This was obviously routine.

Clark turned back to his cup. It was tough enough to watch this stuff on the show. Now it was in front of him and he couldn’t do anything about it. At least not now. All he could do was be less of an ogre than the average man. Not a high bar.

The rest of the night was fine. His meal came, the girl smiling again and Clark knew better than to ask if she was all right. He just thanked her and ate.

An hour later, all full, the rye bread in his rucksack, Clark sat on a bench outside the inn. He couldn’t bring himself to start walking yet. The fatigue was beginning to get to him. He had never hiked continuously this long before and certainly not under emotional duress. So he sat on the bench, under the night sky, looking at the stars.

The second night on the road, he tried looking for Orion. He hoped that the different world didn’t mean a different solar system, but apparently that was the case. It saddened him. Orion was the only constellation he could pick out every night when he got home from work. He’d parked his old Acura, look up and see the ancient giant huntsman. It calmed him and allowed him to get through one more day without telling his supervisor to go fuck himself.

But Orion was gone and so Clark stared at the sky, hoping to find a new calming constellation. At least he had plenty of stars to choose from. Or more he could actually see. No light pollution made for a spectacular night sky.

His musing was interrupted by the door banging open. He turned to find the soldiers staggering out, heading to the stables. He bowed his head and stayed on the bench, perfectly still. The men walked by him, not paying them any mind. Or at least that’s what he thought.

“Hey. Hey you!”

Clark looked and saw that one of the soldiers had staggered to a stop and was gazing at him. It was the one who had yelled across the tavern.

_Fuck._

He forced himself to remain calm and debated whether or not to stand. Standing would leave him more options to either run or defend himself. But it was also an escalation. Plus sitting was a good power move, so he kept his ass on the bench and spoke.

“Yes?”

The soldier stepped forward. Clark did not like his eyes.

“She liked you…she was a mighty cunt to us, but she liked you…”

And it had escalated anyway. Clark stood up. Slowly. The rest of the men were back, all thoughts of retrieving their horses forgotten. The soldier stepped forward.

“You see…I wanted a little cunny tonight. You understand that, right? Just a sniff…she wasn’t too busy…time for you. Why not time for me?”

Clark looked at the soldier. The man was shorter but had more muscle than he did. Plus he had backup. Five other men. Clark was sober and they were all piss drunk. That didn’t fill him with too much confidence. He sighed internally. Maybe he would avoid the whole moral dilemma of this bizarre occurrence and be killed before he attempted to change anything.

The soldier was speaking again.

“Time for you…makes sense though…you are pretty…”

The other soldiers laughed. Clark used the laughter to make up his mind whether to fight or flee. He decided just in time before the soldiers’ laughter subsided and braced himself.

“Thank you. I’m flattered,” he said, allowing a small smile. “I’m afraid though, I don’t like boys and even if I did, I wouldn’t want your ugly ass.”

There was a dead silence. As drunk as the men were, they all knew exactly what Clark just said. The soldier stood dumb, not quite believing what he just heard. Once he put it together though, Clark was sure he would come swinging. So he leaned forward and spoke to him softly.

“You’re drunk,” he said. “You don’t want to do this. There’s no shame in walking away. Just laugh. Call me a cunt. Go to your horses. And leave. That’s your only warning.”

A few seconds passed, the only sounds being the cicadas outside and the patrons inside the inn. Clark kept his eyes on the soldier, praying he’d not call his bluff.

Unfortunately he did. The soldier lifted his fist and Clark resigned himself to be beaten senseless. However, as the fist came toward him, Clark found himself leaning to the side, on some instinct he didn’t recognize. The soldier’s fist flew by his face and he stumbled, falling onto the bench headfirst and knocking himself to the ground.

There was another silence, as both Clark and the other soldiers looked to their man on the ground, clutching his skull. Clark brought his eyes up and found the soldiers each making eye contact with him, one by one.

Clark sighed. _Oh fuck gang mentality._

He braced himself again for fists and worse, as the rest came at him, two at a time. He braced…only to find that the same foreign instinct that helped him dodge came back. He never threw a punch, but he never let one land either. The five soldiers punched, tried to tackle and otherwise beat the shit out of him, but they couldn’t touch him. Clark ducked, he weaved, he stepped to the side. The worst he did was hold his foot out for a trip or two, sending one to the ground and one other into his staggering comrade. That left two soldiers and Clark’s consternation was giving way to annoyance.

He was just so tired, damn it.

All of a sudden, he reached out for a passing thrown punch, grabbing the arm and swinging the soldier into the last one, their heads colliding. Both fell down. And there was quiet.

Well, not quite. There was moaning but Clark stood still and tall, over six fallen drunken sods and he was not going to question this right now. He walked over the first one, still clutching his head. He grabbed him by the collar and threw him to where the other ones were beginning to crawl and gather. He couldn’t read their expression. It wasn’t fear, but whatever it was, it was enough.

“Take your friends and get the fuck out of here,” he said quietly. “I’m tired and I want to go to bed.”

The soldiers stared for a split second before heading to the stables. They didn’t run. Clark remained standing and didn’t relax until they were riding across the front of the inn and onto the Kingsroad. He sighed in relief as he saw them turn right, heading south.

Clark let the silence wash over him. Slowly the tension leaked out of him and he found himself quivering. Adrenaline was coursing through him. He breathed and forced himself to calm down. He needed to get going. He turned to retrieve his rucksack and hat, only to find that the serving girl was outside, watching him.

Meeting her eyes only for a second, Clark walked over to the bench and picked up his rucksack.

“Guess I should thank them for fighting you outside and not breaking any tables,” she said nonchalantly. He looked at her again. She was in the light from the inside. Her arms were crossed and her eyes were full of intent. He looked down.

“Are they here often?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Often enough. They ain’t the worse I deal with. They can be bad but they ain’t the worse.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

He didn’t have a response for that. She sighed through her nose.

“Will they remember me, you think?” Clark asked.

She smiled. “Aye, they will. Not fully. But they’ll keep most of it intact.”

He took a swig from his waterskin. More just to do anything than actually being thirsty.

“I should go then. If they come back for revenge, I’ll need to be far away from here.”

Her eyes pierced his. “If they be coming for revenge, it’ll be tonight. They’ll be riding up the road looking for you. In the morning, they have to go and report to Lord Shawney. I heard them talking. Should be safe then.”

He sat down on the bench. “I can’t pay for a room. Not with what I have and how long I have to go still.”

The cicadas were very loud now and laughter rang from within.

“You can sleep in my room.”

Clark turned to her. Her face was set, her eyes steady. He kept his shock off his face the best he could and she continued.

“I’ll let you in and you can sleep. I got to work until the last man goes to bed. But the kitchen’s closed so that shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. I’ll join you then.”

He stood up, not sure if his next steps would be toward the Kingsroad or toward her. She stayed where she was.

“You need a bed,” she said. “You look exhausted. Sleep would do you good.”

Clark took a breath. “Just sleep?”

She shrugged. “At least a few hours. If you don’t mind me waking you. Either way, be comfortable than the dirt.”

There was a moment when Clark waited for Puritan morality, the kind that had shamed him throughout his boyhood and teen years. The kind that told him he was disgusting for considering this, that this was dangerous, that this woman couldn’t possibly be interested despite her clear invitation. He waited for that voice…

And it didn’t come. He took one step toward her.

She didn’t look surprised. “Come on,” she said. She led him around the back where there was a door and opened it to a corridor. She led him past one door and opened the second one, entering the room.

“In here.”

Clark entered into darkness.

“Wait ,” she said before closing the door. He barely had time to acclimate to the dark, before she returned with a lit match and a bucket of water. She lit a candle, which softly illuminated the room. There was a bed along the wall, a small chest at the end and a table before a window, with the curtains drawn. There was a basin on the table with a rough cloth next to it.

The tavern girl was pouring water into the basin.

“Keep the curtains closed. You can wash yourself here.”

“All right,” said Clark. His mouth was working automatically.

“There,” she said, finished pouring and then patting the cloth besides the cloth. “You can use that too. I have to get back. I’ll be a few hours so sleep if you can.”

Clark nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, looking nervous for the first time, but only slightly. “When I come back, we need to be quiet. There’s no one next to us. Both rooms are stores, but still, we should be quiet.”

“I will,” Clark promised. He still had his rucksack across his shoulder.

“All right. See you.” She turned to leave.

“Wait,” whispered Clark. She turned back, her hand on the door. “What’s your name?”

She smiled, the flame from the candle reflected in her blue eyes.

“Sara. Yours?”

“Tiresias.”

“Sleep well, Tiresias. Be back soon.” And with that, she closed the door.

* * *

The next morning, Clark sat on the edge of the bed. Sara laid next to him. She was still in her shift and snoring lightly. He scratched his chest, trying to remember, but he had no recollection of waking the previous night. He had stripped, washed himself (taking an extra minute to scrub his genitals), and had gotten into bed. He closed his eyes and before he knew it, it was the next morning. The room was full of the grey light before dawn and Sara was sharing his bed, or her bed rather. He didn’t remember her getting in.

Clark stood up and stretched, raising his arms high, before reaching for his hose. He was tempted to cut the legs out and have simple underwear and socks, but he wasn’t fool enough to ruin clothes. That was a job for a more qualified seamstress than him. The only task Clark trusted himself with a needle was sewing buttons.

A rooster crowed nearby. Clark jumped lightly. He hated alarm clocks in any form. A moan came from the bed. Sara shifted under the blanket and managed to open one eye. Clark sat back down on the bed. She blinked and focused her eyes on him.

The rooster crowed again.

“Morning,” Clark said softly.

“Morning,” she murmured. She propped herself onto her side, facing him.

Clark bit his lip. “I don’t remember anything of last night.”

Sara smiled. “I came in here and you were sound asleep. Couldn’t wake you. I tried for a couple of minutes. You came around for a bit. Pawed at me…but then you went back to sleep.”

Clark sighed. He felt a little guilty.

“I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “You needed sleep. Anyway you were a good man to sleep next to. You only snored for a few minutes. You left me most of the blanket. You were warm.”

Clark smiled back at her. She shut her eyes for a minute, then taking a deep breath, she got up.

“No sleeping in?” asked Clark. She went to the basin and splashed water on her face.

“Not without the miss knocking on my door in the next half-hour,” she said. She reached for her dress and shoes. She began to get dressed, looking to Clark. “If you’re feeling guilty, leaving me lonely last night, you can help me milk this morning. Just a thought,” she added with a small grin.

“I don’t have much experience around udders.”

“You can carry the pail once I fill it,” she said. “Not sure I actually trust you with Nettie.”

Clark yawned. “Is this what you ask of all your lovers?”

“Only those not polite enough to keep awake.”

And so, Clark found himself leaning against the barn door, waiting for Sara to finish milking. He watched the horizon. It was a proper sunrise now and he realized that he felt properly good. Last night was the first comfortable sleep he’s had since arriving here. The morning chill was surprisingly pleasant. He even forgot the clothes were itchy, for a longer time at least.

Sara came to his side and lifted a full pail. He took it and began to walk back gingerly, Sara keeping his pace. Once back at the inn. Sara took the milk into the kitchen and came out with a honeyed pastry for him from yesterday. It was a little stale.

“No fresh ones yet,” she said.

“It’s fine. Thank you.” He took a bite. “It’s still good.”

They sat on the same bench from last night. Neither one spoke. They enjoyed the silence until Sara shivered.

“Ain’t you cold?” she asked.

Clark shook his head. “Do you know how far I am from the Neck?” he asked, in between bites.

Sara frowned. “Hundred miles. Maybe. That where you headed?”

Clark nodded. “For now.”

“What’s in the Neck?”

“A swamp.”

She rolled her eyes. “Who’s in the Neck?”

Clark didn’t answer right away. He knew in this world, rumors could spread like wildfire. What else did people have to talk about? He finished the pastry.

“A friend who owes me some coin.”

“It’s a long way to go for some coin.”

Clark shrugged. “It’s my coin. He’s a crannogman and he’s at the castle. So he said. Greywater Watch. And I don’t know how to find a moving castle.”

He felt her eyes boring into him. He leaned against the wall, trying to look unaffected. He was sure he was failing miserably.

“You ain’t from here, are you?” she asked.

He turned to her. Her face seemed open and honest. He shook his head.

“Where you from?”

“Across the Narrow Sea.”

“Where?”

Clark shrugged and looked ahead. “Everywhere. I traveled with my mother. When she died, I ran to the ports and became a cabin boy. Then a sailor. I’ve never been to Westeros until two months ago.”

“Why you headin’ north?”

“I like the cold. It’s more comfortable.”

“You ever been to the Neck?”

Clark shook his head. “No.”

“North on the Kingsroad,” she said, “you’ll pass through the outer reaches of the Neck. If you want to get closer to the center, you need to stay along the Fork when it goes northwest from the Kingsroad. That road on the Fork takes you to the Twins. You don’t want to cross that bridge but you have to. On the opposite bank, you can follow the river into the center of the Neck.”

Clark stared at her and she shrugged.

“Travelers talk. It’s what I heard.”

“And then what? Where’s Greywater Watch?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice a little sharper. “Never heard that part and it moves, don’t it? Besides, I ain’t ever been up there. Farthest I ever been is Oldstones.”

“All right, all right,” said Clark. He didn’t realize he sounded pushy with that last question. He took a breath, calming down. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, her slight annoyance gone. “You want some more breakfast? Sorry I can’t give you more for free.”

Clark stood, shouldering the rucksack. “I need to keep going. Thank you, Sara, for everything. I mean it.”

Sara smiled and stood. “Sure,” she said. She walked up to Clark and pecked him lightly on the lips.

He blinked and she shrugged.

“Never kissed a man from Essos before. Goodbye, Tiresias,” she said. Then without a second glance, she entered the inn, leaving Clark in a daze.

Clark stood in that daze for a few seconds before walking away, turning north onto the Kingsroad. He was tempted to memorize this place. In case he wanted to return. Perhaps he could spend an actual night with Sara. He put the idea out of his head. If the Ned Stark kicked him out of the North and he had to make alternate plans, it wouldn’t do to follow his horny whims. They weren’t going to solve his problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments. I appreciate them all! Next update will be Monday as well.


	4. Chapter Four

Clark reached the Twins four days later. He had considered continuing onto the Kingsroad, forgetting Lord Reed and bypassing the weasley motherfuckers who owned the bridge. Howland Reed may not even know about his predicament.

He spent an hour deliberating before finally choosing the Green Fork. He knew that delaying his arrival in Winterfell was dumb in some regards. If Ned Stark believed him, he could use every second of time to prepare the North. On the other hand, it was only a few months out of his way and he felt that he had to see Howland Reed.

Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to pass by the Twins and piss on it. He spent the early morning observing the two towers from the river. He sat on the riverbank, letting his bare feet cool in the running water. He was also doing his best to shave with the straight razor. He mostly did a competent job but it was still the hardest part of his medieval morning beauty routine. An electric razor had spoiled him quite a bit.

He laughed at the idea of his beauty. He didn’t think himself too gullible when it came to flattery, but Kerry, Sara and the drunken soldier all calling him pretty gave him some thought. He looked back over his near two weeks in this world and he had received a few looks. He dismissed them, thinking he just gave out a strange modern energy. However, he did notice a few lingering looks from other tavern girls and farmer women, from whom he’d ask for a cup of water. Just a few stares though. Nothing ridiculous.

He wondered whether the fact that he had showered daily throughout his whole life figured into this reaction. He wasn’t bad looking in his previous life but he didn’t turn heads. Maybe just looking healthy was enough in this world. Clear skin and steady protein.

With that he put away the razor, stood up and dressed, looking onward toward the Twins. Speaking of looking beautiful and healthy, he wondered if the Freys would be as ugly as they were in the show and the books.

He found out shortly that the answer was yes. At least the three guards at the gate were. Clark took the same steeling breath he took before approaching anyone in this world and walked up.

“Hold it!” said the left guard. He picked up his spear and stepped forward. The other two remained sitting, their mugs before them. The guard stopped in front of Clark, thankfully not too close, looking him up and down.

“What business have you?”

Clark shifted his pack. “Traveler. Heard there was a bridge here.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, there’s a bridge. Why you wanna cross it?”

Clark shrugged. “To get to the other side.”

A tense silence fell. The other guards looked up, their attention on the newcomer. Clark winced internally. Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to be a smart ass.

The guard smiled. Clark swore he could smell his breath from where he was standing.

“There’s a fee for this bridge, you know. Crossing don’t come free.”

Clark gave a polite smile. More to cover how much he wanted to punch this asshole.

“How much is the fee?”

“Three stags.”

Clark looked to the other two. They were smiling too.

“One for each of you, I presume?” he asked, bringing his eyes back to the guard. “Does Lord Walder know you’re overcharging the bridge fee? Skimming off the extras?”

That was a guess and judging by the look of anger on the guard’s face, it was a correct one. He didn’t raise his voice though. His tone just became more slimy.

“You watch yourself, pretty lad. None of your business where the fee goes. Only thing you’ve to worry about is paying. Now, you gonna give us six stags? Or you gonna fuck off?”

_Okay, one more gross angry man thinks I’m pretty. Maybe I should accept it and be the gorgeous stranger, riding shirtless to Winterfell, showing off the glorious back hair for all to see._

He stopped himself from diving too much into that nonsense. The guard was still waiting for his answer.

“Double the fee?” Clark asked. “What for?”

“For being a smart cunt. Smart cunts pay double and you’re lucky that’s all I charge. Now either pay or fuck off.”

Clark kept his voice as light as he could.

“I don’t have six or three silver stags.”

The guard shrugged. “Well, then I guess you fuck off.”

If Clark was being honest, this wasn’t the worst case scenario. He wouldn’t give any coin to House Frey and he could swim across, out of sight of the Twins. However the guard’s smugness made him stay a few extra seconds. He wanted to get the last word in, somehow get across. However he knew that in this world, sometimes he was just going to have eat shit to live another day.

That was until he heard a horn blast behind him. He turned to see a host coming toward them. And by host, he meant a mangy collection of a dozen soldiers following a man on a horse. The man was a sickly looking individual, but he still rode a horse decently. The man next to him carried a banner. A banner with the Twins on it…

Clark turned to the guard, who was watching the host approach. They were about a thousand yards off, coming up the river bank.

“I’m guessing that’s a Frey coming now? One of Walder’s brood?” Clark asked.

“Piss off!” said the guard, his smile replaced by a snarl.

“You know, I should. It’s a lovely stroll down to the river. Think I’ll walk down and meet Walder’s son.” He kept an eye on the guards and didn’t turn though. “I heard things about this family. Lots of sons wandering through. None of them too special. Each wanting the lordship when Walder croaks. Is that man approaching us a son desperate for his father’s approval?”

The other guards came forth. Their backup didn’t stop the other guard from paling.

“I think the man approaching would be delighted to inform his lord father of the riches from the crossing fees. Six silver stags for one poor bastard. Imagine what he could have in his coffers by now. If only it wasn’t stolen by sneaky tolltakers.”

The host was eight hundred yards away now. The guard turned to him, his face red with anger.

“I could kill you before you say one word.”

Clark held his gaze. “You can try. You’d make a mess. Or you could just let me through. With the extra money you’ve collected for yourselves, I’m sure you can cover pretty little me.”

Seven hundred yards now.

Now Clark threw caution to the wind. “If you don’t let me through with no charge in the next ten seconds, I start for the approaching lord and I tell him everything. I want to cross before him. I don’t trust you to let me enter after he disappears behind the walls.”

The guard’s eyes went back and forth between Clark and the approaching company, alternating between anger and fear. Clark hitched his rucksack.

“I’m walking in five, four, three…”

“All right! All right! Gods damn you, all right!”

The guard stood breathing. It seemed to take all his self-control not to hit the stranger before him. Clark let him breathe, but only for a couple of seconds.

“The gate?” he asked lightly.

The guard turned to the man behind him on his right. “Tubs! Open the fucking door!”

Tubs hesitated.

“Just go!”

With that, Tubs ran to the side of the gate, leaving his spear behind, and opening a small door. They obviously didn’t open the big gate for single travelers.

“Come on,” said the main guard. He made to walk with Clark, but Clark stepped back.

“I think you should keep a safe distance,” he said. The guard glared, but stayed put. Clark walked to the door, where Tubs was waiting, careful to keep an eye on the other two, with their hands on their spears. He reached the door.

“I think Tubs should escort me across,” he called. “Make sure I’m let through the other side.”

Tubs look to the leader, who nodded. Tubs gave a Clark a wide-eyed look before stepping through. Clark was about to follow when he heard the leader speak.

“If I see you again, here or anywhere else, I'll kill you on sight. I won’t forget your face.” His eyes were serious.

Clark gave him only the briefest of consideration. The host was three hundred yards away by now.

“I should hope not. It’s a pretty face. Have a nice day.”

With that, he walked through the gate door where Tubs was waiting on the other side. Clark started walking quickly, Tubs keeping pace with him. He looked at the two towers as he walked. It was a formidable castle and interesting to look at. If not for the Freys, it could be…well, anything more pleasant. He could hear plenty of people inside the two structures. Which made sense. Walder was a prolific fucker in any case, churning out more Freys than there should be. He laughed at the thought of Roslin Frey and how the audience reacted to her appearance. How ugly does your family have to be when people are shocked to discover that you sired someone pretty?

Tubs and Clark reached the other gate. Tubs knocked on the door, which was opened by a small guard. He stared at them.

“The hell you doing here?” he asked.

Tubs pointed to Clark. “He’s coming through.”

The small guard looked to Clark then back to Tubs. “Why'd you come then?”

Tubs looked struck dumb. He opened his mouth and closed it.

“I…he…um…” he mumbled.

“The big fella wanted him to bring back some wine,” said Clark. The small guard looked to him. “He spilled a pitcher and they sent him to fetch some more, wondered if you’d spare some. Can I pass? I've paid the fee already.”

He hoped that last part didn’t sound too urgent. But the gate on the other side was beginning to rise and he didn’t want to meet any Frey lords this time around. The small guard rolled his eyes and stood aside.

“All right, all right, go,” he said. Clark stepped through, nodding to the other guards who were holding their own cups.

_Christ, what a gig._

“And you, you fat fuck,” he heard the small guard said to Tubs, “if you want wine,don’t spill what you got and go crying for ours. Now piss off!”

Clark turned to see Tubs turn red with angry embarrassment before the door shut on his face. The guard walked past Clark back to the other guards and to his own cup. He sat down and drank.

Taking a few cautious steps back, Clark watched the new guards for any reaction but they completely ignored him as they went back to their own conversation. He turned and walked along the castle wall, eventually leaving the Twins entirely to walk along the riverbank.

It took Clark quite a bit not to start running. He had no idea what possessed him back there. Was he that angry with the Freys for a fictional massacre? For being gross? For the one guard being a jerk?

As elated as he was for getting out of there and for the thrill of what happened, he was also angry with himself. That was so unnecessary. He could have died for his remarks. Easily. And no one would have cared. He would have been buried just like his previous possessions and probably without as much care. He was lucky they didn’t just drop him into the river like Catelyn…

He stopped, taking a big drink out of the waterskin. He was shaking though and a little bit of it went onto his shirt.

“Ah shit,” he cursed. He couldn’t afford to waste clean water.

_Okay, Clark. Along with no blind charity and no casually fucking the tavern wenchs, let's add don’t provoke any ratbags who will actually follow through on their threats to kill you. Sound good? Great!_

Clark rubbed his temples, willing himself to calm. Mom’s breathing exercise was also employed here. In and hold…then out on a count. It worked as usual. Soon he found himself walking along the riverbank, calm as the river flowing besides him.

There was an aspect of this that he kept thinking about. It involved that night at the inn when he avoided the hits from the soldiers and guided them into falling over each other. He did that on instinct and he had no idea where that came from. Now he’d been in a few fights before, holding his own in some and getting hurt in others. Nothing too serious. But he had never experienced anything like that at the inn. There was a serenity to it. It had gone on long enough that he actually got bored and annoyed. When, during a fight, had he ever felt so at ease as to feel annoyed? Never as far as he could tell. His body just knew what to do. Or he did? Or both? Did his mind just…

Clark ran his hand over his face. It was all of him that knew what to do. It just felt right. He thought about the note he had discovered in his pocket when he woke up. Whoever sent it said that they had gifted him with abilities that would gradually reveal themselves. Was this one of them? Was he a sly sneaky fighter waiting to emerge? Or just a lucky fuck who was able to steer a few drunks into each other?

_Well, another thing I can ask Howland Reed. If he knows me…or even meets with me…Christ, I hope this wasn’t a bad idea._

He settled into a nice pace, forcing himself to look on the bright side. He’d survived the Twins. Not the easiest thing for an ally of House Stark. He was a short distance from the edge of the Neck. He would probably arrive there at the end of the next day. Then he would try and find a castle that evades unwelcome strangers and a lord who’s good with secrets, hoping he would spill them to a random traveler from a different world.

Clark groaned. Well, if nothing else, he could at least ask Howland Reed for the crannogman’s solution to preventing bug bites. The buzzing in the air was only going to get worse on here on in.

* * *

Clark knew he shouldn’t have expected there to be a clear border when the Riverlands met the Neck. The ground became wetter and wetter until suddenly he realized he’d wandered into a bog. Remembering the quicksand mentioned somewhere in the books, he stuck to the high grounds as he ventured further. He still kept the Fork in sight and followed it to the best of his ability.

He knew however that the best of his ability would more than likely get him killed. He marked his path into the Neck as best he could and refused to let himself get frustrated. He didn’t need to find Howland Reed, just one crannogman who would guide him to Howland Reed…or out of this death trap of a bog if Howland Reed refused to see him.

Darkness came before he knew it. He made a fire the best he could with wet wood. It was more for the company. He really wasn’t cold at all. Plus, the smoke helped keep the mosquitoes away and it could draw the attention of anyone watching. He hoped so at least.

Continuing along the Fork or what remained of it, Clark came to its end in two days. He came close to despair, realizing that going into a bog was not the smartest idea. Until he saw a dock. Well, it wasn’t much of a dock. However when Clark made his way to it, he saw clear outlines where there used to be ropes. No moss covered them.

Turning to the water, he saw multiple exits and entrances to this bog harbor. There were crannogmen here recently and they had taken some boat off. He noted his location carefully and walked a little farther into the trees, careful to stay out of the water. These crannogmen might been gone for good from this spot. However, they might return soon. If that was the case and they left something, it would be hung for safety against any animal who would eat it or destroy it. It might be visible…

Sure enough, Clark spotted a hung bag, tied tightly among the higher branches of a nearby tree. The rope was camouflaged along the green vines that swarmed the place. He squinted to see it. He was sure they were more, but he was too tired to look. He returned to the small harbor and found the one bit of high ground. It wasn’t dry. Settling down, he ran over his supplies. The waterskin was only a quarter full. He had enough jerky to stretch for two days.

He took a small sip, allowing the water to run over his tongue before swallowing. He didn’t taste the animal tinge that nearly made him gag the first time he drunk from the skin. Now it was just warm. He dreamed of cool alcoholic beverages.

Putting on his cloak, he began to sweat. But he was more covered from the insects and perhaps a little camouflaged himself. He laughed at the notion. What shot in hell did he have of fooling anyone or anything in this swampland? Hiding from the lizard lions?

Figuring he’d find that out later, he built a small fire allowing the coming darkness to appear a bit more friendly. Soon he couldn’t see the harbor and then the dock. He kept the fire burning as well he could, hoping he could attract the attention of his fellow man. He used all of the sticks and breakable branches in his vicinity. He resorted to placing moss in the fire.

Time was the only thing that truly peeved him. He had no idea what time it was, how long he had been awake, or when the dawn would come. He wished for a watch almost as much as he wished for a full waterskin. He looked to his dwindling pile of kindling and moss. Why did he come this way? Why was he so calm about the fact that he might die here? Was it the same recklessness that drove him to confront the guard at the Twins or insult the soldiers at the inn or head north instead of south?

Maybe he did want to die. Who knows? Maybe if he never saw the Starks in person, it would make giving up so much easier. He knew he made the decision to try and warn them, but at the same time, he was scared to get involved in the slaughter to come. He had serious doubts whether he could prevent it anyways…

Clark recognized the language in his mind and he shut it down instantly. He would not entertain thoughts like that tonight or any other night. He was alive. He had to talk to Howland Reed and he had to get out of here. And he would do it whether or not he burned through all the moss he had collected. Speaking of which, the fire was a little low.

He reached down for a handful when he heard something. He froze, moss in hand. He stood, lowering his hood, and walked to the edge of his firelight, looking into the darkness. He could, of course, see nothing. And whatever had made that noise was now frozen. He was certain that he was being watched.

He was tempted to walk back and dump his whole pile of twigs and moss on the fire, to create the biggest blaze he possibly could under the circumstances. Something came in the air though that gave him pause. Closing his eyes, he sniffed softly. The bog air was strong, but (and he had no idea how he could tell) he could smell wet leather coming from something. It definitely wasn’t a live animal. He took another sniff and smelled other things attached to the wet leather. He couldn’t quite place them…but it felt human.

Clark opened his eyes and peered to the approximate spot where he smelled the leather. Still dead silence.

“My name is Tiresias,” he said. He figured he didn’t have to yell. He knew they were close enough. “I’m a traveler. I’ve come a long way to be here. Would you show your faces?”

No response. Clark took his belt and knife off and threw it toward the fire. He spread his arms.

“I’m no enemy of the crannogmen. I’m looking for Lord Howland Reed. I have a message for him and I also seek his counsel. Would he see me?”

Still just silence from the darkness. Clark sniffed and knew they were still there.

“Listen, if you are not going to let me see Lord Reed, then could you perhaps help me? I’m running low on food and water and I’m lost. Could you direct me out of the Neck? I was hoping to head north next.” He swallowed the little spit he had. “I’m sorry for coming onto your land without your permission. I really am. But I could use your help now. I promise I mean no harm. I swear it by the old gods.”

Nothing but nocturnal singing from the insects answered his plea. Clark was beginning to believe that he had spoken to no one in the darkness. He lowered his arms and turned toward his fire.

He jumped. A woman’s face was peering at him by the tree, illuminated by his small moss-fire. She came farther into the light, revealing herself. She was small and wiry, with light leather armor covering her shoulders and torso. She carried a three-pronged spear taller than her and she had a net bundled at her side. Her brunette hair was tied back tightly and she regarded Clark with suspicion.

Clark remained still. While he was focusing all his attention on his front, this crannogwoman snuck behind him. He could hear water moving to his rear. He turned his head and saw two more crannogmen come into the light. One was younger than him, blonde and was holding a knife. It looked like bronze. The other one was bearded with long, black braided hair. There was a long pipe slung across his back, which Clark suspected he used for blow darts. He also carried a spear.

Turning back to the woman, Clark saw her pick up his knife and place it under her own belt. She walked over to him, regarding him with large brown eyes so dark, they seemed black. Clark towered over her but she didn’t act like he did. She stood before him, holding the spear close to his chest. No fear came from her so Clark did his best to return the favor.

Guessing that she was the leader, Clark swallowed and spoke.

“Hello. It’s good to see a face.” He paused, wondering what to ask. They didn’t seem keen on conversation. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked as politely as he could.

The crannogwoman gave the smallest smirk.

“No sense wasting poison on an idiot who wandered into the Neck, not knowing where to find fresh water,” she said, lowering her spear. “We leave you here, you’d be dead in three days.”

Clark glanced at the other two crannogmen. They hadn’t lowered their weapons yet.

“Are you going to leave me here to die?” he asked.

She and her companions exchanged looks before she spoke again. “That depends,” she said. “What do you want with Lord Reed?”

“I want to speak with him,” Clark said.

“What about?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that,” he said, keeping his refusal as friendly as he could.

The crannogwoman stared at him. “You really are a bit of an idiot, aren’t you?”

“I am. I still can’t tell you what I need to say to Lord Reed. It’s for his ears alone.”

“And why should we believe that? You, a complete stranger, are asking for us to stop whatever we’re doing and bring you to our liege lord, on your word that you won’t harm him? Or be wasting his time? Why should we bother him with your big secret?”

Clark heard something go into the water. He turned to see the older crannogman extracting a pronged spear from the water, a wriggling dying frog on its end. He kept his eyes on Clark the whole time.

“It’s not my secret,” he said, turning back to the crannogwoman. “It’s Lord Reed’s. It’s a secret he’s been keeping for years. A secret that could tear the realm apart.”

He paused. He knew he was going into treacherous territory here, but he didn’t see another way. A little bit of the truth was the best lie.

“And through some stupid, unexplainable reason, I now know the secret. Now I haven’t told anyone Lord Reed’s secret. I could have, but I don’t want to. And if it was only this secret on my mind, I would have left Westeros forever. Kept it to myself and let the secret die with him. I wish that was the case.”

Despite the fact that Clark knew sincerity wasn’t usually the best way to go in the Seven Kingdoms, he pressed on.

“But unfortunately, that’s not the only thing that haunts me. I’m no greenseer. I can’t read the future. But by the same way I know Lord Reed’s secret, I know that there are things coming. Wars, a return of magic and enough humanity to rip this land apart. And I want to help. I don’t know how. I don’t know how to balance what I know and what I can do it against those in power now and what they value. I’m only human and I need counsel. I was hoping to seek it from Lord Reed and take appropriate action from there. But I swear…”

Clark raised his hand, hoping it was a good enough gesture.

“I swear, that no matter what happens, I will continue to keep the secret. And if it is decided that I am to be killed, I only ask that it be swift and that you allow Lord Reed to make the decision.”

The crannogwoman stared at him, trying to figure him out. The fire was almost out as well, casting her face in even deeper shadows.

“I’ve never heard your accent before,” she said. “Where are you from?”

“Across the Sea.”

“Where across the Sea?”

Clark shrugged. “I don’t know. My family were nomads. We kept between the Free Cities and the bays up north. They died when I was young. I’ve been sailing since I was twelve.”

“And now you’re here in the Neck,” she said, her hands running down her spear. “Why is a nomad from Essos so concerned about the fate of Westeros?” she asked. “Why not just go home?”

“Essos was never my home. I…”

He broke, a tiny lump in his throat that he wasn’t expecting appeared. He swallowed and continued.

“I can’t ever go home again. I have nothing but Westeros now. I hope to make a life here and I can’t do that if I allow the things that I know are coming to come.”

_Damn it. That was an awkward sentence._

She stepped forward, her dark eyes never breaking with his.

“How do you know what’s coming? You say you’re no greenseer. So how do you know?”

Clark sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But that has to be my secret.”

She looked his eyes for a minute now. Clark held her gaze, freely blinking, waiting for her response. Eventually she looked to her companions. Clark turned and saw that both of them have lowered their weapons. He breathed and returned his gaze to the crannogwoman.

She was walking to the dying embers of the fire. She knelt down, reaching into a pouch. She sprinkled some powder onto the pit and the flames revitalized. Clark felt the older man walk by him. He unfurled his cloak to reveal a bundle of sticks attached to his back. He began building the fire back up, stronger than ever.

Clark returned to the side and sat down. The younger crannogman joined them and they began setting up preparations for dinner.

“Thank you,” said Clark. “I won’t forget this. Thank you.”

The crannogwoman looked at him as she began to chop frogs up. “Right now, you’re something between our guest and our prisoner. I’m keeping your knife until Lord Reed lets you go free. So behave yourself and don’t make me regret not leaving you to die out here.”

Clark nodded. “I promise.”

She reached for a skin. “Are you thirsty?”

“Yes.”

She threw him the skin. “Drink slowly and not all of it.”

Clark drank gingerly, taking only two mouthfuls before handing it back. The fire was brighter than it had ever been before and soon the crannogmen had chunks of frog and onions frying up. Clark offered up the remainder of his dried beef which each of the crannogs took, though he suspected that they did so more out of politeness than anything else. They didn’t seem to care for it. And Clark supposed he didn’t seem enthusiastic as well when he accepted his fried frogs and onions for his dinner. However it really wasn’t bad at all. Weird texture, but he got it down easy enough. He was hungry after all.

Also, in the back of his mind, he was thankful for any food from a crannogman. He supposed he was now protected by guest right. And now even if Howland Reed decided not to see him, they were still obligated to see him safely out of the Neck and on his merry way. They weren’t Freys. In fact, they despised the Freys. They would keep their word. He was pretty sure about that.

Clark helped as best he could and before long, they were cleaned and ready to camp down for the night. He turned to his new companions.

“I said it when I was shouting in the dark, but my name is Tiresias,” he said. “What are your names?”

They glanced at each other, before the older crannogman spoke.

“I’m Dallan. The boy’s name is Martan. He doesn’t speak.”

“My name is Annag,” the woman said. “I’m still keeping your knife.”

Clark smiled. “It’s lovely to meet you all. And thank you. No matter what matters with Lord Reed, thank you for what you’ve done.”

The fire went out a few moments later, allowing the moonlight to flood the bog. Dallan volunteered for the first watch. Clark settled down for a sleep, chasing away an errant fear that they would stab him in his sleep. He turned to Annag.

“How long will it take us to get to Lord Reed?”

She shrugged. “A month, at the very least.”

“A month?”

“Aye. You’re a real lucky idiot, Tiresias. He’s usually not that close around here. Can’t travel well.”

Clark laid on the driest ground he could find. “His injuries from the Rebellion?”

Annag turned to look at him. He laid still, meeting her eyes, reflecting the moon in the darkness.

“Aye, he was injured. But this season, he’s about touring and inspecting. His path and ours will cross in one month. If you behave, I’ll speak on your behalf and see if he’ll receive you.”

Clark turned onto his side. “One month is fine with me.”

Annag stretched out her small frame. “Aye well, it’s not so fine with me or the others. We have work to do in the coming month, and having on an extra mouth was not in the fucking plan. So I’ll only say this once: stay out of our way and try not to be too useless.”

“I’ll pull my weight.”

She snorted. “I’m sure. Just remember, that while you’re a helpless idiot in our land, I’m in charge. So don’t question my command. Understood?”

He nodded, not sure if she could see him. “I understand.”

Nothing more was said and Clark decided to try and get some sleep. He hoped he could keep up the façade long enough to talk to Howland Reed. He also hoped that he could be somewhat valuable to this group in the upcoming month. A bog was not his natural habit and he steeled himself before falling asleep. He would not complain. He would work. And he would not rise to any bait offered by the crannogs.

He drifted off, trying not to think how soaked his cloak would be in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. I hope you all have a good week! See you next Monday.


	5. Chapter Five

The cloak remained soaked for the entire month Clark spent traveling with the crannogmen. It was subject to the moist ground at night and it never dried completely during the day. The trees were too thick to allow much sun through. Luckily it was warm enough that Clark went without the cloak more often than not.

He never complained though, at least out loud. It was mostly because the crannogmen never did. For the first week, they traveled by boat, mooring by night to camp and during the day to inspect the various secrets that they held. At least that’s Clark assumed. He mostly stayed in the boat with Martan, who kept a silent watch on him. The boat was small and having an extra man was quite a nuisance for the crannogmen. But none of them said a word. Clark usually sat next to Dallan, while Annag and Martan rowed. Dallan spent the first morning organizing his poison darts and needles, placing them in easily accessible places on himself. He gave Clark a few looks as he did. The message was clear: you may be close enough to harm us, but not before we could kill you.

Besides not trying to kill them, Clark tried to do some heavy-lifting around the camp. He carried sacks of supplies. He gathered firewood every night. Halfway during the first week, he was trusted enough to help row. Annag’s scorn didn’t disappear, but it did lessen somewhat. She did trust him enough to toss him his sheathed knife the last night they moored. He caught the knife, staring at her. Then she threw him a large fish.

“Your job tonight is to skin that. Can you handle that, sailor?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before walking away.

Clark gave a silent thanks to whomever the fuck was listening. He only knew how to skin one creature on earth and that was fish. His dad taught him during summer fishing trips. It had been a few years but he still managed to gut the fish and then section it without destroying the whole thing. It didn’t look pretty though. He wondered if sailors cut fish often enough so that it looked nicer than his current work. Was it just fishermen who actually handled and sectioned fish?

Regardless, he placed the fish in the pot when everyone was busy. They didn’t see his awkward chunks of flesh, as they softened into a fish stew. Annag came back to a simmering pot and a clean knife, which Clark handed back to her.

Over the next three weeks, as they traveled through swamps on pathways that barely rose above the water, Clark continued his usefulness as well as he could. He feared it wasn’t enough. Traveling alone was simple. He could indulge in conversations with himself using modern language, sing Billy Joel, be inept in certain circumstances and no one was there to bear witness. With three crannogmen as constant companions, he had to remain on guard and his anxiety was ever present.

But it could lessen though. It did whenever Clark was engaged in learning a new skill. The constant companship of Annag, Dallan and Martan put Westerosi living in a closer perspective. He watched as they purified water for drinking, found tinder alternates for campfires, laid traps, and caught various creatures, including lizard lions, and skinned them.

He also learned all the gross things as well. He missed modern plumbing with all of his heart. It wasn’t too bad before the Neck. Traveling along the road before meant that he could pick plenty of leaves that weren’t poisonous to clean himself. In this swampland, where many things animal, plant or fungi could kill you, picking something to wipe your ass was a terrifying endeavor. He asked Dallan (when he was alone) straight out what he recommended. Dallan gave him a strange look and Clark hoped to God that people actually did wipe their asses in Westeros. Luckily Dallan apparently did and he showed him a few common plants in the vicinity that were skin safe. They never mentioned it again and Clark was sure that Dallan was no gossip, although Martan’s eyes were suspiciously more full of mirth that night by the fire.

However, throughout the whole trip, he wasn’t questioned again. Annag, Dallan and Martan were quite silent in most of their doings. He wondered if that was because he was there, fucking up the group dynamic. But as the month came to a close, he guessed that wasn’t the case. For one, Martan couldn’t even talk. However, if he could, he probably wouldn’t have said much more than he already did. Annag and Dallan were quiet as well, but quite relaxed with each other. Clark was thankful for their indifference. He didn’t think he could keep his story straight through more questioning. He wondered how he would conduct himself at Winterfell. If he ever got there.

A few days after the month ended, they heard a soft whistle pierce through the air around midday. Martan pulled out a whistle and blew back a response. They went back and forth a couple of times before the whistle was put away and they continued. Clark walked up to Annag.

“What was that?” he asked.

“A message from Lord Reed,” she said. Her voice wasn’t nearly as quietly threatening as it was when they first met, but it was still curt. “That was a scout. We’re about a two hour walk away from the main camp.”

Clark kept his face from showing his excitement. Two months of searching and traveling had brought him at last to someone who (he hoped) would help him. He shifted the extra pack he was carrying and walked on. The following hike were the slowest two hours he’d had in a while. He wandered how east they had traveled. That was their general direction anyway, despite the fact that they took major detours. They haven’t gone much further north though. So if Howland Reed ejected him, it would probably be south into the Riverlands.

Finally they walked into a clearing. It was the largest patch of high ground that he had seen in a month. There were several tents placed on this ground and several crannogmen crossed between them, tending to fires, their catches or just going to lie down after a long day. Clark and his group walked into the fray. Annag, Dallan and Martan greeted quite a few people, but the greetings couldn’t stop the whispers that began or the stares that Clark felt from everyone in the campsite. He thought briefly how he could make him less visible, but that was a doomed goal. He was a head taller than everyone in this group. The suspicion from Annag, Dallan and Martan may have lessened over the last month, but it was fresh here.

Feeling he may as well face it head-on, Clark looked at the nearest crannogman who was staring at him and nodded.

“Evening. It’s good to meet you.”

The crannogman turned to Annag.

“Annag, who is this?” he asked, ignoring Clark entirely.

Annag placed her pack on the grass and straightened up, cracking her back. “Says his name’s Tiresias. He wants to talk to Lord Reed.”

The crannogman stared at her. “And you actually brought him here?”

Annag shrugged. “He speaks of dangers in the future and of secrets. I was going to talk with Lord Reed beforehand. See what he wants to do. If he doesn’t want to talk to our tall stranger, I’m throwing him out of the Neck myself.”

“Lord Reed doesn’t have time for the nonsense of an outsider.”

A crowd was beginning to gather closer to the group. Dallan stepped in front of Clark. He could sense Martan go behind his back. If Annag was put off by the challenge of the crannogman, she didn’t show it. She seemed quite bored actually.

“If Lord Reed doesn’t have the time, then he’ll tell me so himself,” she said, her voice keeping level. She turned to another crannogman. “Arten, is he in his tent?”

Arten nodded. “Aye, he’s only just gone in.”

“That’s fine,” said Annag. She turned back to the whole group gathered. “I’ll let Lord Reed decide if he’ll hear what this stranger has to say. I’m going to go talk to him now. This man…” She pointed to Clark. “…is not to be harmed. He had broken bread with us and is under our protection, unless Lord Reed says otherwise. Dallan and Martan shouldn’t have to keep their eyes peeled for any quick knives while I’m gone. Am I wrong? Or will you behave yourselves?”

There was a short silence before the grumpy crannogman who spoke up turned and left. The rest of the crannogmen dispersed to their tents. Annag, satisfied, turned to Clark.

“Wait here,” she said. “If he wants to see you, I’ll let you know.” Then she walked off to the largest tent in the vicinity. Clark watched her disappear into it, before turning back to Dallan and Martan.

“Thank you,” he said. Dallan grunted and went about his work. Martan nodded once and started pitching the tent. Clark helped him. Before long, they had their full camp going. Other crannogmen stopped to chat with Dallan. Clark did his best not to eavesdrop and started cutting an onion for the stew, borrowing Dallan’s knife. Someone came behind him. He turned to see Annag and stopped, waiting with bated breath…

“He’ll see you,” she said.

He sighed, unable to stop himself from smiling. “Thank you, Annag, thank you so much…”

“He’ll see you after dinner and when matters with our people are dealt with. When he’s ready, he’ll send a messenger.”

Clark nodded. “When will that be? Did he say?”

“No, he didn’t. But I suppose it will be hours from now. I’d stay close.” With that, Annag walked off to see the other crannogmen. Clark turned back to the onions. Dinner that night was a quiet affair. More than usual. Clark wasn’t hungry, but he forced himself to eat. Martan found a large dry log that brought the fire up to a blaze Clark hadn’t seen in weeks. He hung his damp cloak in front of the fire and sat with his back to the flames, his eyes on Howland Reed’s tent.

Dallan and Martan stayed close to the tent. As it was with many previous nights, they didn’t say a word to him. Not that Clark minded. He was a loner growing up. He was used to not talking with others. As far as it could be, it was a comfortable silence. He actually saw Howland Reed, or at least whom he assumed to be Howland Reed, step out of his tent several times to welcome the different crannogmen. They stayed in the tent for several minutes at a time, a few of them staying for at least a half hour. At least it seemed like a half hour. He forced himself not to become frustrated though. Truth be told, he had no idea what he would say to Howland Reed when he actually saw him. He tried a few times to construct an opening statement in his head, but nothing sounded right. Everything just seemed wrong.

He lowered his head, sighing. That was not how he was going to win over Howland Reed. He had to relax. He was very tired from the month of bog travel and he was struggling to remain seated upright. Abandoning the fight, he lay down on the grass, his eyes on Howland Reed’s tent. The fire was still to his back and very warm. He blinked and sighed. He was so tired…

“Wake up. Tiresias, wake up!”

He started, sitting up, his head immediately feeling light. Sunset was long past. He blinked and saw Annag in front of him. Behind her stood two crannogmen, one of which was the one who protested his initial arrival. He blinked again, feeling his world center and stood up.

“I’m sorry, Annag. I just…”

She cut him off. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll see you now. Come on.”

She turned and started walking. Clark followed her, his legs a little wobbly from sleep. He felt the other two crannogmen trailing him. They crossed the camp; Clark had enough consciousness to feel eyes following him. Annag reached the tent flaps first. She stopped and held her hand up, halting Clark. The two guards walked by and entered first. Annag nodded and they both entered.

The tent was smaller than any lord’s tent Clark could remember from the show; Tywin’s, Renly’s, even Jon Snow’s. However, there was enough room for a cot, a brazier, two chests and a table with three chairs adorning it. Clark saw that the chairs were collapsible and on one of those chairs sat Howland Reed.

Clark rightly picked him out earlier. In the light from the brazier, he could see him more clearly. He did look much like the actor who played him in the Tower of Joy flashback. Several years more in the swamp had certainly aged him but not horribly. His brown hair was longer, his beard fuller. He seemed more wry. His green eyes reflected the brazier light intensely and for some reason, they relaxed Clark. Ever since arriving in Westeros, he had never breathed more freely. It almost didn’t seem important whether or not Howland believed him. He was here. He’d made it.

Knowing however that that was a crazy thought and he did want Howland to believe him, he gave a short bow.

“Lord Reed, I presume?”

Howland Reed nodded and gestured for the chair in front of him. Clark crossed and sat down. Howland grabbed a pitcher from the table.

“Would you care for some wine?” he asked. “I’d offer to join you, but I’m afraid I’ve already drunk more I’m comfortable with this evening. Having to greet so many in one night. However, you’re welcome to some if you’d like.”

Clark eyed the pitcher. “You’re not too drunk to speak with me, are you?”

Howland smiled. “No.”

He nodded. “Good.” His eyes traveled to the others still in the tent. “I’m afraid I’ll decline your offer. I don’t feel good drinking another man’s booze when he’s not partaking. Besides, I’ve already taken too much advantage of your people’s hospitality.”

Howland’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Booze?”

Clark suppressed a wince. “Drink.”

“Hmm,” said Howland. He placed the pitcher down. “That’s fair…your name is Tiresias, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never heard of such a name or an accent such as yours. You are from Essos?”

“That’s right.” It was very warm in the tent. The relaxed feeling was disappearing quickly.

“Annag told me that you seek my counsel and that you hold my secret.”

The others in the room were still, looking from Howland to Clark. He cleared his throat.

“I do.”

Howland didn’t seem perturbed. He yawned, obviously tired from the day’s journey. Clark knew he had to act quickly.

“Lord Reed,” he began. “Would it be possible to speak to you alone?”

“Absolutely not,” The crannogman from earlier stepped forward. His face was red. “You have some nerve demanding a private meeting with Lord Reed.”

“I’m not demanding anything. I’m asking.”

“Asking, eh? And how do we know you’re not some Frey assassin? Hired to infiltrate the Neck and kill our Lord?” He turned to Howland. “My lord, let us take him away and question him. Not waste anymore of your time.”

“I took his knife away, Harn,” said Annag, venom in her voice. “And I brought him. You think I’d endanger our Lord like that?”

“There are other ways to kill without a knife, Annag. You led him straight to our Lord!”

“Lord Reed,” said Clark loudly, cutting the argument down. Howland didn’t seem disturbed by it though. His green eyes continued to gleam. “I’m sorry for bringing discord into your camp. It was not my intention. I truly wanted to talk to you and I thank you for giving me your time, but this isn’t enough. What I have to say to you, I can’t say in front of anyone else, not even your closest confidants. If it would satisfy your guard, you may bind me and I’ll speak to you then, but only if we’re alone.”

He turned to Harn and the other guard. “I’m no threat. And besides, I’d like to think I’m a little too handsome for House Frey.”

Harn moved to speak again, but Howland raised his hand and there was silence. The brazier crackled along with the familiar nightsong of cicadas and frogs from outside. Finally Howland leaned back in his chair, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Harn, Annag, Null, leave and give us enough space around the tent to ensure privacy for Tiresias and I. He won’t be bound.”

Harn blanched. “My Lord, I protest this.”

Howland nodded. “Your protest is noted. Now leave. I’ll call if he stabs me.”

Harn forced down his reply, bowed and left. The other guard, Null, left too. Annag followed them, leaving only the Lord of the Neck and Clark in the tent. Howland waited for a minute and then spoke at a normal level.

“Harn, Null, I changed my mind. Come back and bind this man immediately.”

Clark looked at the tent’s entrance. No one came. He turned back to Howland Reed, who seemed quite content.

“Satisfied?” he asked politely.

Clark nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Howland gestured toward the pitcher. “Are you sure I can’t offer you some wine?”

“I’m sure,” said Clark, leaning forward. “You might need more though, for yourself when you hear what I have to say.”

“Really? Why’s that?” Howland asked lightly. “Does it involve my secret?”

Clark discovered he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled. “Before I talk about that, I wanted to ask you some questions if I may?”

Howland nodded. “All right.”

The brazier crackled for a while before Clark was able to open his mouth and speak.

“You’re a greenseer, yes?”

“Yes,” said Lord Reed quite casually. “Not the most proficient one, I’m afraid. Enough to recognize talent and gifts greater than my own.”

“Do you know who I am? Have you seen me?”

Howland’s gaze turned slowly into a peer. “Are you not Tiresias? Are you not from Essos?”

“Have you seen me?” Clark hoped the repeated question didn’t come across as abrasive, but Howland didn’t seem offended.

“No. I have never you seen before today. In dreams or otherwise.”

Clark leaned back in his chair. He was disappointed on one level. He could use one less person to explain himself to. On the other hand, it was a relief to know that his arrival in Westeros was hidden from seers. However, Howland Reed wasn’t the most powerful greenseer. There was still chance that the Three-Eyed Raven beyond the Wall knew of his arrival and his knowledge. And if that was true, it was certainly possible that the Night King knew as well…

He shivered involuntarily. Those were worries for another day. The Lord of the Neck was still before him and he wasn’t done.

“So…is Tiresias your real name?” asked Howland.

“Yes,” said Clark, beginning to believe it himself. After all, if he said so, who was there to contradict him? For all intents and purposes, it was his real name. He continued.

“I meant it when I said to your people that I was no enemy. I hope I could be your friend eventually but right now that’s all I can offer.” He swallowed and swallowed his voice. “Lord Reed, I think it’s time we talked about your secret.”

Howland crossed his fingers, relaxing them on his stomach. “All right. What secret do you know?”

_Okay, Clark or Tiresias, once again, here we fucking go._

“The secret that is currently being hid in Winterfell. A trueborn dragon in bastard wolf’s clothing.”

There was no movement from the crannogman. He sat still. Only his eyes seemed to gleam more brightly and Clark could hear his breath hitch. He took a breath himself.

“Lord Reed, I have no intention of revealing what I know to anyone else, except to Ned Stark if I can manage to speak to him. There is no leak to this. No one else knows. How I found out, no one else will be able to.”

The Lord leaned forward. “How did you find out?”

His fingers felt clumsy. Clark looked down. He clenched and unclenched them. “I’m no greenseer. I don’t read fortunes. But I do know things. My knowledge is limited, but I still know. I told you Jon Snow’s truth in order to prove that I know things I shouldn’t. And the other things that I know are coming are much worse than a secret Targaryen heir.”

Every sign of weariness was gone from Howland Reed.

“What other things?” he asked.

“I don’t know how much to tell you,” said Clark. “I’m sure you must understand that sometimes things need to play out as they’re meant to. Usually when someone tries to subvert catastrophe, they end up creating worse outcomes. And however much people may suffer, things will come to balance in the end. That’s the future that I saw for this world. A return of magic from the East. Wars that will bleed the realm dry. Monsters that will come down from the North and monsters that will emerge from the people, noble and smallfolk alike.”

He brought his gaze up to Howland’s.

“But when I saw what happened to this country, I wasn’t here. I wasn’t around with the knowledge I have today. I couldn’t have saved the people I desperately want to save now. And I wanted to ask you, what I should do? What should I do with the knowledge I have? Should I attempt to change things for the better? Should I just leave? Or…will you kill me to keep the secret and spare me the trouble of deciding what to do?”

There was a long pause in the tent. Howland finally got up and poured himself a cup of wine. He poured a second cup and gave it to Clark. He took it and drank with Lord Reed. It tasted like the wine at his Episcopal Church, which was slightly comforting.

“Who are you?” asked Howland, lowering his cup, his voice low.

Clark sensed the tension and knew that this next answer would either bury him or free him. He thought back to the letter he found in his pocket.

“I am a man…” he began. “I’m a man with both too much power and too little of it. I’m sure you can relate. I know of the calamities coming and I want to prevent the worse from occurring if I can. And that’s really it. Anything else I was…I can never be again.”

He felt tears began to form at his eyes, but his voice was steady.

“Everyone from my old life is gone. Whatever I learned for my future is now useless. Everything and everyone I loved belongs to my old world, which is now forever closed to me.”

Tears streamed down his cheeks. He turned away and breathed, focusing on the brazier.

“I’m not from Westeros, but I’m here now and it’s the only home I’ve ever have. And there are people here that I’ve never met that I’m attached to, probably even love. They’re going to go through so much pain and I might be in a position to stop that from happening. So…”

He turned back to Howland Reed.

“Should I stop that from happening? Should I try?”

Howland’s eyes were cloaked in shadow. After a full minute, he stood, placing his cup on the table and walked over to the brazier.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

Clark stood and joined him. Every line of his face stood exposed in the light.

“Who are your gods?” asked Howland.

Clark hesitated. He had been an apatheist for years back home. Now he wasn’t sure. It might be whomever dumped him here in the first place. So he answered.

“Whomever is listening. I’m sorry but I’m not very religious.”

“Do you have someone you love unconditionally?”

He thought about his mother and father, his older sister. His dearest friends…

“Yes,” said Clark.

“Look at me,” said Howland Reed. “Do you swear by the love you hold that you’re no enemy of mine or my people? Or the Starks?”

“Yes.”

“Do you swear that you’re here to help and not sabotage them?”

“Yes.”

“And do you swear,” his voice dropping to a murmur, “that you will keep the secret you’ve confessed tonight? Will Jon Snow remain Jon Snow? A bastard of Lord Stark?”

“I will. For as long as he remains in danger, I will.”

Howland stared into his eyes and Clark tried hard not to blink. It was difficult though with the heat of the brazier. He hoped he’d told the truth for that last question. Finally Howland walked back to his table. Clark, trying hard not to sigh in relief, asked:

“So what should I do?”

“That is what I’m going to try and find out,” said Howland. He came back with a knife. Clark automatically took a step back.

“What’s that for?”

“I’m going to attempt a greendream tonight. Most of the time, they don’t come if I try to force them, but it’s worth a try.”

Clark blinked. “And the knife?”

Howland held the knife out. “I need a little of your blood. Not much, mind you. Just a few drops.”

Taking the knife, Clark hoped he wouldn’t run into too many blood rituals in this country. He made a silent note to stay away from Dragonstone and Melisandre, whenever she showed up. If that was possible. He rolled up his shelve and pressed the knife to the outside of his forearm. He remembered his friend telling him that only idiots slice their palms for blood. He only hoped this was the correct safer alternative.

Howland certainly thought so. Or at least he didn’t say anything when he returned with his cup of wine.

“Ready?” asked Clark.

“Yes.”

He drew the knife across and let out a low hiss. More than a few drops flowed out, but thankfully it was pretty contained. Howland placed the cup under the forearm and caught a few drops. Clark thought he heard a slight breeze in the tent but he was probably imagining it. Howland procured a cloth, which Clark took and pressed to the wound. When he turned to Howland, he was already drinking the full cup of bloodied wine.

Clark stared at him, as Howland placed the empty cup back on the table and looked at him.

“I’ll speak to you tomorrow afternoon, whether I greendream tonight or not.”

“Thank you,” said Clark, strangely not disturbed by the blood drops Howland swallowed. More just surprised.

Howland went to his cot and kicked off his boots.

“Make sure Annag cleans and bandages that. I’ll send for you tomorrow. Good night, Tiresias.”

Clark gave a short bow. “Thank you, Lord Reed, and thank you for listening. Good night, my lord.”

“Send Harn and Null back in on your way out.”

Clark exited the tent without looking back. Harn stood twenty feet away from the entrance. He looked very irritated. When he saw Clark exit, he marched right up to him, opening his mouth.

“Your Lord wants you and Null now,” said Clark as he sidestepped Harn. He didn’t look back, but he swore he could hear teeth grinding before Harn opened his mouth and yelled for Null, who had been guarding the other side of the tent.

Clark arrived back at the camp. The log Martan had found was now ashes. He was asleep and so was Dallan. Annag sat against a stone, whittling. She looked as Clark approached and grabbed his hung dry cloak.

“Well?” she asked as Clark placed his cloak on the ground and sat down. “Do we skin you alive for trespassing?”

“I don’t think so,” said Clark. His chest felt very light.

“Shame,” she said. “What are we to do with you?”

He shrugged. “He’ll tell me tomorrow.” He smiled. “Might order us to be wed. What do you think of that?”

She flicked a chip in his direction. “I think you’re still short one knife. I could return it to you tonight as you sleep. Right between your ribs.”

“You’re truly a lady. He did ask me though to ask you, to clean and bandage this,” he said, revealing his cut on the forearm. “Could you please?”

Annag gave it a brief look, before reaching into her bag. She pulled out a small jar, filled with a brown paste. She tossed it to Clark and got up.

“Wash it with water first, then spread that paste around. I’ll go get some clean bandages.”

She walked off into the darkness. Clark could hear her fiddling with her other bag. He took his waterskin and began to clean the wound.

Despite the bleeding, he was feeling relieved. He hoped that Howland Reed gave him good news tomorrow. However, he took pleasure in the partial confession. It had left him feeling slightly giddy. That was until he applied the paste to the cut. It stung like a motherfucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Monday, we'll see what more Howland has to say to Clark.
> 
> Thank you again for the kudos and comments. I know that OC fanfictions are not the most popular or fun to read (Clark will meet main characters I promise), so just know that I appreciate you, reader. Thank you for your time.
> 
> Have a good week!


	6. Chapter Six

The next day saw multiple groups staggering out of the clearing. All of who went to check in with Howland Reed before they departed. It was certainly the most relaxed feudal system that Clark had seen so far in Westeros. Not that he had much to compare it with at this point, but still even thinking about taxes or farming or serfdom…not much of it seem to apply to the crannogmen. Howland obviously got some sort of tribute, but Clark felt safe guessing that he was one of the poorest lords in the entire kingdom. He seemed happy enough though.

Maybe just living in the Neck was full time survival. To make it any more complicated was to doom themselves. They certainly made it impossible for anyone else to invade and conquer them. No army could march or ride through here. Not that the crannogmen had anything worth conquering for, at least in the eyes of those who ruled. If they had any treasure, they kept it secret.

In the back of his mind though, he wondered how many White Walkers and wights it would take for this place to be overrun. Probably fewer than he thought. He had been thinking about the Army of the Dead for a while now, especially considering the Battle of Winterfell. It seemed like they were most similar to ants, in his mind at least. How does one defend from a swarm of human-sized ants?

_A question for another day_.

That was a phrase he’d been repeating to himself quite often these days. He was nowhere near settled enough to try and influence the future he saw for Westeros, the one that he consumed for entertainment. If he was to try and influence future events anyway. He hadn’t heard from Howland Reed yet. Maybe his day would end with him being killed or being sent south or across the Narrow Sea.

Eventually midday passed. Everything that their group possessed was packed and they were the last ones waiting to be dismissed by Howland Reed. The group before theirs was just disappearing to the north and Harn came up to them. His scowl hadn’t moved from last night.

“Lord Reed wants to see you,” he said, addressing Annag. He then turned to Dallan and Martan. “You two stay here and watch him.” He jabbed his thumb at Clark, who exchanged a quick eyebrow raise with Martan.

_What? Exactly what you’ve been doing?_

Martan sighed under his breath, as if to say _I suppose._ Annag and Dallan exchanged a glance before she walked off to Howland’s tent, with Harn following her. It was still up. Null, Arten and one other crannogman stood guard. She entered without any preamble. Harn took his position outside.

Clark looked around, but there was nothing to do. Dallan and Martan didn’t seem pressed to accomplish anything in their time alone, so Clark took to their example and stood quietly, trying to follow the birdsong that was sounding through the trees. He actually followed a bird for two minutes to the north, at least he thought so. It was difficult to tell. Dallan sat on his pack, his eyes closed. Martan keep a lazy eye on him. Clark nodded and smiled, turning back to the trees. His straw hat was ruined the first day in the bog and discarded. His hood on the cloak was his only protection, but he didn’t mind the sun too much anymore, although he still preferred the cold to the heat. His pink burns had turned into tans for the most part. He even found himself not squinting as much anymore, if at all. He had become a little tougher in these last two months.

At least he certainly hoped so, because Annag was returning to their group and she looked very angry. Calm, but still very angry.

“He wants to see you,” she said, addressing Clark without looking at him. Knowing the futility of asking what was wrong, he stood immediately and walked toward Howland Reed’s tent. He approached the entrance. Harn was glaring at him. Clark was tempted to throw him into another guard, as he did with the soldiers at the inn. But he simply nodded politely.

“Afternoon,” he said, and walked in, not waiting for a reply.

Howland Reed was sitting. He seemed rested though and relaxed. He smiled at Clark, which he hoped was a good sign. The other entrance to the tent was open, allowing natural light to come in.

“Lord Reed,” said Clark. He bowed slightly.

“Tiresias,” said Howland, as he stood up. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes…did you?”

“Yes, I believe I did.” Howland walked around the table, to the back exit. His limp was there, but it was slight. “Would you indulge me and take a small walk with me? I’ve been in this tent all day and I’d like some afternoon air.”

He exited and Clark caught up with him. Outside, the guards began to follow but Howland waved his hand.

“Thank you, friends, but please don’t. Relax for a few minutes. I’ll be back shortly.”

All the guards nodded and retreated back to their posts, including Harn. Clark walked with Howland, matching his slow pace. It was a good thing the clearing was so small. Clark decided to break the silence when they fell out of earshot.

“Your men are very concerned for your well-being.”

“As they should be,” replied Howland. “Harn’s ire toward you may seem a little blunt. He is not used to outsiders and certainly not amiable toward strangers in our secret meeting grounds. There’s something sacred about this clearing.”

“You don’t sound concerned about me being here.”

Howland shrugged. “Whether or not a place is holy depends on the behavior of who is occupying the place. However you don’t seem disrespectful to the land. A little ignorant perhaps if Annag is to be believed, but harmless.”

Clark grinned a little. “Ignorant?”

“It’s not the worst thing to be in your situation. Do you know where you are on a map? Could you find your way out of the Neck and then back to this place?”

“No,” said Clark with no hesitation.

Howland Reed smiled. “Harn holds these lands above all else. He’s proud of them. He sees you walking in like an idiot and surviving, it puts something into his head. But you’re no threat. Not yet anyway.”

With that, Howland sat down. Clark waited a second, before sitting down himself.

“Not yet?” he asked.

There was no answer. Clark checked to make sure they were clearly out of earshot and went with another question.

“Did you greendream last night?”

Howland shrugged. “Perhaps. It might have been an ordinary dream.”

“What did you see?” Clark asked, the hair on his neck rising.

“A pack of wolves were running through the forest. They were of different sizes and coloring. They were content and happy to be together. Then a great snow started to fall. And the leader of the pack, the oldest, couldn’t see. He was blind. The snow continued and his pack was beginning to be buried. The smallest was gone first and they still looked to the leader for guidance. But he couldn’t help. He was strong, but he had never seen snow like this before. However, before the snow could claim another, a whistle pierced through the clearing. The leader turned toward the whistle. He howled. The whistle answered. So the blind wolf gathered what remained of his family and made for the whistle. They came upon a cave, with a roaring fire and a shepherd standing guard. The shepherd guided them in and tended to those injured and cold. He did so cautiously and the wolves regarded him with suspicion as well. Shepherds are meant for sheep and they did not belong with wolves.”

There was silence. Clark waited for the rest, but Howland seemed like he was done.

“Is that it?” asked Clark, his worry growing.

“Maybe,” said Howland.

“So…most of the wolfpack survives and they growl at the man who saved them and the man is frightened as well?”

“At first, yes. He did not belong with them. As I woke though, I felt the cave grow warm and relaxed. He tended to them.”

A small snake slithered onto Howland’s leg. Clark jumped slightly but Howland seemed undisturbed. He continued to speak.

“I’m going to say this once, Tiresias. Don’t lose yourself in greendreams or however else you see the future. It’s not set and even recounting the dream to you, I can’t tell what was lost or added due to my own prejudices.”

“Are your dreams usually true?”

The snake slithered off his leg and into the waters below.

“Usually,” said Howland. “But I always miss most of what surrounds the vision. It may not concern the Starks. It’s just a dream at the end of it. And it’s tempting to see yourself in the dream, when you may not even be there. Are you the shepherd? I cannot say. Maybe you’re the cave.”

“It was my blood.”

“And it may have been an ordinary dream. However…” Howland’s voice remained light, but his eyes were stone. “If you’re right and the White Walkers do return, snow should command more significance.”

“I didn’t say anything about White Walkers.”

“No. Just a return of magic and monsters from the North.”

That warranted a short pause from Clark.

“Okay, fair enough.”

“On the other hand,” said Howland. “Perhaps the snow represents the calamity that come down on the Starks through Jon Snow himself. If he’s discovered, Robert’s wrath will bury Ned and his family. He’ll be unprepared and no one will be safe.”

Clark threw a pebble.

“So what do I do?”

Howland reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. He handed it to Clark, who noticed the red waxed seal. It was a tiny little lion lizard. He looked at Lord Reed.

“Your seal?”

Howland stood and Clark joined him. “You are not my subject. I cannot tell you what to do. If so many atrocities are converging at once, I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to flee. However…if you are serious about Westeros being your new home and you wish to help, I believe you could do far worse than to head north and be the eyes that the blind wolf lacks.”

Clark looked at the letter. “And this?”

“A letter from an old friend, advocating for a stranger. One thing I’m certain of from the greendream last night is you. I know you’re telling the truth when you say you mean no harm to the Starks. I saw a good nature from you. I admit I don’t know what use you would be around Winterfell as a sailor, but I suggest you find one. I think you will, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

Howland started walking back to the tent, Clark on his tail. They entered and Howland turned with another question.

“Do you have enough coin to travel to Winterfell?”

Clark blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Coin. Do you have enough?” He opened a chest and pulled out a purse. He opened it onto the table and separated some silver. “Will seven stags and ten stars do?”

Clark swallowed. “Lord Reed, please that’s not necessary. I can manage until…”

“You’re lying,” said Howland lightly.

He left the allotted amount on the table, placing the purse back in the chest. He scooped the coppers and silver from the table and deposited it in Clark’s hand, taking it from his side. Clark stood there dumb.

“If it makes you feel better, this isn’t from the treasury. This is my own private purse and I know I can spare it. If you need any more help sleeping, you can call this a loan and not a gift. But it is a gift. Understand?”

Clark nodded. “Thank you, Lord Reed. Thank you.”

Howland beckoned and Clark followed him out of the tent.

“Don’t thank me yet, Tiresias. You still need to get out of the Neck and I don’t trust you not to die on your way out.”

“That’s reasonable,” said Clark.

“I can’t spare a whole group of crannogs to escort you, but I will give you one,” said Howland.

“Which one?” asked Clark as they reached the last group left. He looked to the group and saw his question answered. Annag’s scorn was back in full force. Dallan and Martan were trying hard not to smile. Howland stepped to them. Dallan handed him a pouch of coins and a folded parchment, reporting their progress.

“Thank you, Dallan. And you too, Martan. I thank you both for continuing on, one crannog short. Annag will join you back at Greywater when she is done with her task. Be safe.”

“Yes, my Lord,” said Dallan, inclining his head. Martan gave a short bow as well. They both picked up their bags. Clark and them exchanged a quick stare before Martan went forward and shook Clark’s hand. Dallan did the same.

“Thank you,” said Clark.

Dallan glanced to Annag, before turning back to him. “Good luck,” he said, releasing his hand. With that, Dallan and Martan turned and disappeared into the western marshes, though Clark could hear them continue to march on the wet grounds.

That left Clark alone with Annag. He looked at her and saw her picking up her bag. She met his eyes.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” she said. “Get your bag. We need to go.”

She marched off without another word. Clark turned to Howland Reed, wanting desperately to say something else. Anything. However it all seemed so useless. He settled for short and sweet.

“I’ll repay you one day, Lord Reed. I swear it.”

He stuck out his hand and Howland shook it. “Be careful with what you know, say and do. You have a great opportunity here, Tiresias. Don’t waste it.”

“I’ll do my best. Good bye.”

Howland nodded and Clark turned, stooping to grab his rucksack and cloak. He ran after Annag, who was near the edge of the clearing, heading east. It wouldn’t do to lose his reluctant guide moments after they started.

* * *

It took only two weeks to get to the Kingsroad. Annag walked and navigated the way with a brisk purpose, to get this idiot out of the Neck alive and as quick as possible. At least that’s what Clark assumed. He was impressed that she kept her ire up. Most of the rage and anger he’s felt during his life was short-lived. It’s exhausting to be cross all the time. Maybe that was just a testament to Annag’s endurance. She walked northeast, through bogs and murk that she treated tenderly the month before. Being light on her feet, she never destroyed anything in her way, but it was still jarring.

Clark followed as best he could. Truthfully, he wasn’t doing terribly for an outsider, at least he thought so. The month he spent with Martan, Dallan and a then more patient Annag toughened him up enough to where he only asked for a break once a day, as opposed to multiple times. He didn’t even need more and didn’t hold out for bravado, he genuinely felt almost giddy to be dirty in a swamp. He wondered once he got out, whether he would miss the frog-calls in the evenings as he fell asleep.

Perhaps he only felt so giddy because he had a guide to take him back to the Kingsroad. He certainly didn’t want to live in the Neck forever. He wanted to get North. Still he felt good that he had a chance to travel with Dallan, Martan and Annag. He hoped that they were amiable to visits in the future.

That last thought made him pause. _Christ, I’m desperate for friends_. _I like them and I’m happy to have traveled with them, but I was their burden and I fucked up their schedule and their grouping…whenever I caused an inconvenience back home for someone, I’d send them an apology and a five dollar gift card. The fuck do I do for this pissed woman in front of me?_

He tried to temper his glee from there on in. He tended to the fire every night and cooked. He was getting pretty good with the flint and steel, stepping right back into his Eagle Scout shoes. Annag took care of the light hunting and water gathering. It was just quicker than watching some idiot stumble and scare away the animals. Although a week in, Clark did spot some mushrooms that Dallan identified as safe in their travels. He picked them and produced them for the stew that night. Annag didn’t roll her eyes and placed them straight in, which Clark took for a win. That night, in response to Clark’s polite “Good night,” she grunted.

Make that two wins.

The following week was lighter. She still didn’t speak to him but the intensity lessened and now it just seemed politely quiet at times.

The only time she spoke was at the end of the two weeks of traveling. She said that they would arrive the next day around midday and she’d walk him past Moat Cailin. Once he was on solid ground again, he was on his own. Clark thanked her and that was all what was spoken between them until later that night.

Dinner was done and the fire was out. They just laid out on their respective cloaks. Clark peered up to the sky. The trees were not as dense here and starlight was shining through, reflecting off the bog water.

“Do you have a favorite constellation, Annag?” he whispered, not knowing why he whispered.

He heard her turn over and felt her consternated gaze lock onto him. He met her eyes, surprised he could actually see them. The starlight was intense tonight. She looked surprised, but not annoyed. She brought her face up and peered. Nothing was said for a solid minute and then she pointed to the northwest.

“The Shadowcat. She’s my favorite.”

He followed her hand as best as he could. He knew better than to ask her to connect the dots, instead logging that name away for an astronomy book if he could even find one. Maybe in Winterfell. He hoped he could sweet talk Maester Luwin into letting him read that. Or anything for that matter.

Annag then pointed straight up.

“And the Mason. He’s a right comfort.”

“Aye,” said Clark. “He is.” He turned over, closing his eyes. “Good night, Annag.”

He heard her turn as well and settle in with her usual grunt.

The next morning they made good time. Clark didn’t even see the Kingsroad until he was right in front of it. He stepped onto solid ground for the first time in nearly seven weeks. He almost did a fist pump before stopping himself. He couldn’t resist a victorious yell though. Annag joined him seconds later.

“I suppose I should be insulted. Are you so happy to be out of our big swamp?” she asked.

“Aren’t you happy that I’m out of your big swamp?” Clark said, grinning like a maniac.

Annag tapped her shoes against a tree. “We’ve another few miles to go before we get past Moat Cailin. We’ll get there before it’s dark, but not that much before. Days are getting shorter. Come on.”

With that, she turned north and walked. Clark assumed that when they stopped walking on bogs, he would have less trouble keeping up with her. But that wasn’t the case. She still walked briskly and only by the grace of his height; did he manage to keep step with her.

Still, the Kingsroad did much to lift his spirits. It was the happiest he’d been in a long time. Forget the medieval clothing and it was almost like he was back in his old world, hiking with his dad on summer weekends. The memory cheered him but the thought hurt him. He swallowed a lump in his throat and continued to walk.

Moat Cailin was a fucking mess and that brought down the mood. He looked over the ruins and pondered. He knew that before it went into ruins, it essentially was a solid wall, preventing any southern army from invading. He considered telling Ned Stark that he should repair it. But then again, was it impenetrable from every angle? Could it hold off wights and White Walkers from the North? Dragons from the air? Besides, even if it could, rebuilding a fortress takes years. Did they have enough time?

Clark shook his head, then chuckled at himself. He needed a new way to process his flashes of inspiration and the disappointments that followed. He was beginning to resemble a horse, shaking his head, shaking off overwhelming tangent thoughts like flies.

Annag had stopped and Clark walked a little ahead of her. The sun was beginning to go down and there was still enough light to make out vast fields and meadows with clusters of wood in the distance.

“Welcome to the North,” said Annag behind him.

A cool wind rippled across the fields and kissed his face. It felt wonderful after so much time spent in a swamp. He couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t exactly like the pleasant chill back home, but it was so similar it didn’t matter. He turned to see Annag, who was partly turned toward the south, eager to return to the Neck. He walked back to her and stuck out his hand.

“Thank you,” he said. “I know I’m the idiot you got stuck with, but thank you all the same. I owe you my life.”

Annag gazed at him for a few seconds before taking his hand and shaking it. She let go gently.

“Horrible things are really going to come, are they?” she said quietly. “Things that you have seen?”

“Not for a few years hopefully, but yes.”

“Then forget owing me your life. Use it instead to do what you can.”

Clark hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I’m still grateful.”

Annag rolled her eyes. She then reached into her bag and pulled out the knife and belt, handing it to Clark, who put it on.

“Thank you,” he said.

She stared at him. “A word of advice for you. You best come up with a better story for yourself. One you can carry. Cause you’re no sailor.”

The wind carried the silence for a bit. Clark sighed.

“What gave it away?”

“Your hands are too soft. You’re a hard worker and you know knots, but you don’t tie them often,” she said. “A bit slow with them. Also, there’s no Mason in the stars.”

Clark blinked and looked up at the darkening sky, then back to Annag. There was a quiet triumph in her eyes, though she still didn’t smile.

“I knew before then, but that only sealed it. I’d think a sailor would know his constellations better than anyone.”

Scratching his head, Clark cursed himself. He should have known better than to converse about a subject that could trip him up. That was a stupid mistake.

“Yes, he would.”

Annag turned to face him fully, her back against Moat Cailin.

“I don’t know why you lied. Maybe you have a distasteful past. But you don’t seem dangerous and Howland Reed says you’re no enemy of ours. So I’m not angry. But…” she said, stepping forward and locking her eyes with his. “You’re here to do important things, Howland Reed says that too, and they may help save many people. And if you fuck that with another paltry story like that sailor tune…that would make me angry. Furious even. So please…don’t fuck it up.”

Clark found himself staring, before nodding.

“I promise,” he said. Annag sighed and they stood in silence for a bit before she spoke again.

“The next inn’s not for another twenty miles or so down the road. I’d find myself a safe tree to lie under if I were you.”

Clark nodded. “I will. Thank you, Annag. Goodbye. Say hello to Dallan and Martan for me when you see them.”

She gave the slightest smile. “Goodbye, Tiresias.” And with that, she turned south and starting marching toward Moat Cailin. He was tempted to watch her disappear but he needed to keep moving. Besides he’d probably have plenty of somber farewells to drag out in the future.

So he turned and began walking again. On the road to Winterfell. The excitement was back and although he knew that the long walk north would probably temper it in the weeks to come, it still wasn’t the worse way to begin his time in the North.

He had no idea how far he traveled before setting down for the night. There didn’t seem to be any danger around his sleeping spot, but he decided not to start a fire anyway. Dinner was smoked lizard jerky and the freshest water the Neck could provide. He chewed silently, watching the stars in total darkness. That potential book of constellations in Winterfell’s library was sounding better and better. Anything to make sure that he didn’t fall into that trap again. Plus, he liked pretty shiny celestial bodies. He looked to the west and wondered if the Shadowcat was real. He supposed he’d find out at some point.

He snuggled into his cloak, content with the day. Unfortunately it was a little marred when he was drifting off to sleep. He realized that he completely neglected to ask Howland Reed what year it was or how old Ned Stark’s kids were.

After calling himself a stupid son-of-a-bitch for two minutes, Clark shrugged and closed his eyes.

_Just one more fun surprise awaiting me at Winterfell. Still have to get there. Walk across a country as large as the other kingdoms. Oh Christ on a cracker, this will be such a motherfucker_.

Clark fell asleep with a small grin, laughing at himself. He resolved to keep an ear out for Westerosi swearing in the upcoming weeks. He would need to sound a little more medieval when he was pissed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's in the North and headed to Winterfell!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for the kudos and comments.
> 
> Hope you all have a lovely week!


	7. Chapter Seven

Clark sat in the riverbed, trying desperately to scrub himself. He supposed he was clean on some level, but without any soap, there was some grime that just wouldn’t come off. He tried rubbing mud from the riverbed on himself, but that was just another mess.

Finally he just gave up and rinsed himself. He’d just have to wait until he found some soap merchants, or a bathhouse, or a hot spring.

_That could happen. I’m very near a hot spring._

At two and a half weeks of travel on the Kingsroad, he came upon a castle and a town surrounding it. That night at the inn, he learned two things. One; the castle was Castle Cerwyn and two; it was a hundred miles from Winterfell, which surprised Clark. He’d assumed that Winterfell was much farther north, closer to the Wall. Apparently, it was more in the middle of the kingdom, which he supposed made sense for the seat of the Warden.

That news had filled him with an energy he hadn’t previously felt in his trudge up North. He had walked briskly for the next three days after Cerwyn. Late the previous night, a farmer on the road told him he was ten miles away from Winterfell. He would reach it today.

That was the cause of his deep cleaning that morning. He guessed that Ned Stark wouldn’t care whether he was pristine or not, but he still wanted to make a good first impression. If he was going to sound insane, he at least didn’t want to look it.

Then again, he probably wouldn’t have a choice. By the look of the approaching clouds from the east, it seemed there would be a heavy rain. He’d arrive at the gates looking not only insane, but soaked as well.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he quickly dried and dressed. He also gathered some dry tinder and kindling, along with a few sticks that he tied together and slung across his back with the rucksack. He didn’t think he needed them, but if the rain proved too heavy and he needed a fire in some shelter, he would have dry material all ready to go. He slung his cloak over all of that. It was the first time he wore the cloak in the North. In the daytime at least. The autumn temperatures were actually very pleasant.

Thankfully the temperature didn’t drop when it started to rain. Clark let the rain fall on his head for a few moments before raising his hood. He actually loved the rain. He grew up with it. But he knew that he should respect it. In this day and age, hypothermia would be a lot easier to come by and a lot harder to manage. However the cloak seemed to do the trick. His pack and sticks remained dry and he stayed relatively warm.

The rain continued for the entire morning and Clark felt that it slowed him down. He kept his spirit up though. Every minute that he delayed arriving to Winterfell was another minute to decide what to say to Ned Stark or anyone else there. He touched the letter from Howland Reed in his pocket multiple times. He knew that was a boon, but it might not be enough for the big information dumps or revelations about the future.

Clark sighed and trudged on, wiping his face. He tried to capture a little of the rainwater but he barely got a drip. He told himself not to worry. He was near enough to Winterfell not to die of thirst. At this point, he was just looking for things to worry him. He had no way to tell time or distance, but even in this weather, he knew he should be coming within sight of the castle soon.

Finally, Clark came out of a forest and onto a series of vast meadows. The rain was lessening and if he squinted, he could make out a large grey structure through the mist, a mile away. He let out a breath and started laughing. It was Winterfell. He could recognize it from here. Ned Stark was in that castle. So was Jon and Arya and Catelyn and…

He came back to reality. He had to make it to the castle first and he had to use the mile beforehand to calm down, and not act like an idiot in front of some stern fictional characters. They were real now and if he fucked up, he could do even worse damage than what he saw coming. He lowered his hood. He needed to feel the rain and clear his head for this task. He set off.

Twenty minutes later, he was walking through Winter Town, the same path that King Robert and the Unsullied marched up. He got a few odd looks; the ones that he had been receiving frequently as a passing outsider. Thankfully the interest died pretty quickly and he walked up to the castle unbothered. He stopped a couple hundred feet out to take it in. This was Winterfell before twenty thousand men marched south for the War of Five Kings. The large grey walls were topped with soldiers who were young and fit, prepared to kill. He saw past the gate and into the courtyard. There were dozens of artisans and craftsman, all working diligently for the oncoming winter. It was a really cool site and sight as well.

His eyes fell on the guards outside the gate. He wondered if he’d be stopped. He shook his cloak of the excess water and took out the letter from Howland Reed, tucking it behind his cloak.

_Okay, Tiresias. In for a penny, in for a pound._

He began walking in what he hoped was a nonthreatening manner. He could smell ironworks as he approached. One of the guards turned toward him. He gave the guard a brief nod, hoping that pitched him as a trustworthy individual.

It didn’t.

“Halt,” the guard said, walking to block the entrance. The other three joined him. Clark quickly scanned their faces. Maybe it was his bias, but none of them seemed as mean as the Frey guards. They were in better shape at least. No one resembled Tubs in this group.

“Hello there,” said Clark, deciding to start friendly.

The guard stared for a bit, then nodded. Clark sighed to himself. Maybe he should have faked an English accent. Or been a mute.

“Afternoon,” said the guard. “What business have you in Winterfell?”

“I have a message for Lord Stark.” He hoped that wasn’t too brusque and that the Northerners hated conversational bullshit as much as he did.

The guards exchanged looks but they still seemed relaxed.

“Lord Stark won’t be taking petitioners or messengers until after midday. You can enter the castle then and present yourself along with the others.”

Clark swallowed. “Gentlemen, with all respect, what I have to say to Lord Stark, I don’t think he would like me to say to him in public. I require a private audience.”

He felt the energy shift before him. It was miniscule, but he could see the minute movements of the guards before him. One wrong word and he would be taken down.

The head guard spoke again. “That’s not going to happen. No stranger is allowed a private audience with Lord Stark. If you have words for him alone, you can write them down and it will be delivered to him to be read in private. Or you can stand with the other petitioners and give it over to him personally. If you wish.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Clark could read him easily and knew the best way forward was a firm politeness.

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid that’s not an option. I can’t put my message down into writing. It must be said to Lord Stark. Alone.”

He raised his hand slowly, Howland Reed’s letter in his grasp.

“I just came from the Neck. I have a letter here from Lord Reed for Lord Stark. He vouches for me. The Lord of Winterfell is safe with me. If he cannot meet me today, I will wait in Winter Town until he does, but I must speak with him privately.”

Maybe it was a good thing he looked harmless. Or confident. Honestly he didn’t know what he looked now after months of medieval living. He certainly didn’t feel pretty anymore. Either way, the guards did little more than tighten their grips on their weapons. The main honcho took a minute and then reached out for the letter. Clark gave it over, hoping he was correct in reading this main guard as trustworthy. The guard turned the parchment over, observing the lizard lion seal on the back. He raised his eyes to meet Clark’s and held them in a stare for a solid ten seconds.

“Wait here,” he said, before turning to his fellow guards. “Keep an eye on him. I’ll be back soon.”

He turned and disappeared, leaving Clark with the three guards. Clark backed up a few feet. He figured they all could use the extra breathing space. He did his mom’s exercises to calm down. He wasn’t served by panicking, although he did fantasize, if he was run out of Winterfell, about making his way down to White Harbour. He could take a ship south and see if he could keep up with a Dornish woman.

He smiled a little. The answer was probably no. Anyway, he would melt in the south. He was more comfortable cold. It was stupid, he knew, but he was curious to experience a true Northern winter. At least one without ice zombies in it.

“You came from the Neck?” said a voice.

He came back to earth to see one of the guards looking at him. He was young, couldn’t have been more than twenty. Curls of blonde hair stuck out from under his helm.

Clark nodded. “Yeah.”

_Damn it, Clark. Aye or yes. No yeahs._

“You’re too tall to be a frog man,” said Blonde Guard.

He wasn’t sure if “frog man” was a deep insult to the crannogmen or a good-natured rib. He answered as if it was the latter, with a brief small smile.

“I’m not a crannogman. Just passing through.”

Blondie didn’t have much to say after that, for which Clark was thankful. A few more minutes passed before the main guard came back. He was staring straight at Clark, then he turned to the group.

“You two stay here. Vics,” he said, referring to Blondie. “Come with me. And you,” he turned to Clark. “Follow us and don’t make trouble. Hand that knife over slow.”

Clark unsheathed his knife and handed it to the guard, hilt first, much smoother than he was able to a while ago. His months in Westeros have deftly improved his knife skills. The guard stuck the knife in his belt and marched off with Vics, following him. Clark walked after him as they entered Winterfell, into the main courtyard. He knew it was years before the show began, but he couldn’t help looking around for familiar faces. The guards walked to the other edge of the main courtyard and he kept up. A few eyes followed them, but they were left alone. Most others were too occupied with their own business.

Vics and the main guard stopped before a bench on the border of the yard, shielded by a balcony that ran from the wall to a keep.

“Sit,” said the main guard. Clark did so, sighing internally in relief. He was quite tired from walking half the North. He tried not to look too pleased though. The guards didn’t seem happy to be taking on this additional task.

“We’ll be waiting here until you’re summoned,” the main guard said. “Until then, keep quiet and stay seated.”

That suited Clark fine. He leaned against the wall and relaxed. He didn’t expect to be shown in straight away, even with Howland Reed’s letter.

He had no way to tell time. He could only assume that lunch had passed and that the multiple people stepping out of the big hall, one or two at a time, were petitioners. They came out every few minutes. The time in between the exits varied and there were many of them.

He sat for at least a couple of hours. It was a good thing the courtyard provided interesting sights. He was happy to sit and take it all in. The only times when he had been in castles, they had been stuffed with tourists. He could only imagine showing up here in sandals, shorts and a fanny pack. There were many people here though. He saw masons, smiths, weavers, farmers, the kennelmaster, practically too many to keep track of.

The sun began to go down. As the darkness grew, he felt himself growing more calm and accustomed to Winterfell. Well…maybe accustomed was the wrong word. But it was the same thought that occupied his mind during the final mile to Winterfell. If he had met Ned Stark right away, he would have been overwhelmed and constantly gaping around him like an idiot. Maybe now he could actually remain focused and talk properly after hours of sitting in the courtyard.

A wagon came through the gate and was halted before a doorway that must have led to some storage. A few men came out to unload the huge sacks that laid on top of the wagon. One of the men was significantly taller than the rest. He was a little heavy too and as he turned around, Clark’s breath caught.

_Hodor_…

Hodor was across the yard and lifting two sacks at a time like it was nothing. Clark sat silently, absorbing his astonishment, trying not to freak out. He actually sank into himself a little, as though he was scared that Hodor might turn and see him, realizing that he didn’t belong in this world.

Of course, that didn’t happen. Hodor finished unloading with the others and the wagon continued to the stables. Hodor went back into the castle and Clark leaned forward with his breathing exercises, his head down. If the guards found it strange, they didn’t say anything.

Clark was still focused on his boots when he sensed something coming from his left. There were mutters coming closer and closer. It took a second before he discerned the mutters as “M’lord.”

He kept his eyes to the ground. He had to remain calm. He saw the main guard’s boots leave his periphery, heard the following…

“Lord Stark,” said the main guard.

“Halford,” said Ned Stark. Clark recognized the northern burr instantly, although it wasn’t quite as deep as he remembered it. He felt Ned Stark’s gaze on him and heard him speak.

“Is that him?”

“Aye,” said Halford. Clark was grateful for a name.

“Has he said anything?”

“Silent as the grave, m’Lord. Sat still too. We made sure of that.”

“Thank you for your patience,” said Ned Stark. “Both of you. I would have attended to him sooner if I could. You’re dismissed for the evening. We can take it from here.”

“Thank you, m’Lord. Good evening.” Halford paused. “Also, his knife. If you decide he gets it back.”

Clark heard him hand the knife over and walk away, seeing Vics’ boots follow him. He kept his eyes down. He thought back to his childhood Christmases. How he would unwrap his presents as slowly as possible to keep the suspense going, the adrenaline rushing. It annoyed his family to an extent, but it was similar to what was happening here. He’d watched the whole show, walked so long and now Ned Stark was within earshot and just out of sight. It was thrilling.

But he knew that he couldn’t stay aloof much longer without being offensive. So he took a deep breath, sat up and looked to the left, meeting Ned Stark’s eyes.

The first thing he registered was how far away the Warden of the North stood. He could have sworn that he was much nearer, given how clear he heard the conversation. Second, he saw that Lord Stark had guards. Four of them and they looked much tougher than the ones at the main gate. Not that Halford, Vics and the others didn’t look tough too. The North bred some hard eggshells and the Warden got the better ones. There was another man standing next to Ned Stark with graying hair and side-burns that were tied at the chin…

_Okay, I’m seeing Rodrik Cassel as well…that’s neat._

Rodrik Cassel was staring him with a calm suspicion. Ned Stark shared that look. He seemed like a tougher Boromir. He wasn’t quite as lined and gruff as he seemed on the show, but he was still Ned Stark. Clark supposed that if he was going to survive, he was going to have to stop thinking about the actors that played them. It was going to be tough. His Grandma loved the BBC and was always watching it when he came over. Half the actors on the show were familiar to him before he watched it.

The stares between them lasted a few seconds. Clark knew that when it came to exuding toughness, he was going to lose. So he decided to keep things as light as possible. He could impress them later…somehow. He stood.

“Lord Stark, good evening,” he called. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Ned Stark walked forward, stopping a few feet away. He held the letter from Howland Reed. The seal was broken.

“You delivered this from Lord Reed?” he said.

Clark nodded. “That’s right.”

There was a silence. When he was waiting for Ned Stark appear, Clark became part of the background and was subsequently ignored by all. Now with the Lord of Winterfell staring him down, he could feel the curious looks coming their way from the whole yard. It was a little unnerving.

Finally Lord Stark turned to his guards.

“Walk with him,” he said, before looking back to Clark. “Come with me.” He turned and walked away. Clark followed him, the household guards following in step with him. He would be speared four ways if he stepped out of line. He was thankful for the cold. Otherwise he’d be sweating bullets right now.

Lord Stark entered the main entrance to the biggest building in the castle. The Great Keep? The First Keep? He’d figure it out later. Right now, Ned was walking up stone stairs and through corridors. There were less and less people present as they walked on. Finally after five minutes, they came onto a short empty hallway with a single door at the end. Ned Stark took a key out and unlocked the door, entering. Clark waited a few seconds before he followed.

This was the Winterfell solar. He knew that at once. It looked busy but it was organized well enough. The shelves around the room contained rolls of parchment and leather bound books. He could only imagined how much record keeping was needed to keep a whole kingdom going. There was a large table with a map of the North, along with various notes for the lands indicated. There was a fire going in the hearth. Two practical and comfortable looking chairs stood before it. Above the hearth hung a tapestry. There was a large group of people there; one stern-faced bearded man, a tall woman, three boys and a little girl…Ned’s family before the Rebellion…at least that was his educated guess.

Clark took his eyes to the centerpiece of the room, a large desk, behind which Ned now stood. He had taken off his furs and his gaze was focused intently on Clark. Clark winced. He had gaped around like an idiot when he promised himself he wouldn’t. Oh well, nothing to be done now. He waited for Ned Stark to speak, noticing that the letter and his knife were on his desk.

Ned sat down. “Your name is Tiresias?”

Clark breathed. “Yes.”

“Tiresias, would you object to a search of yourself and your belongings?”

“A search, Lord Stark?”

“If you want to speak privately, that’s the only way my men will leave the room.”

He looked to the other men in the room, then back to Ned.

“Won’t have to strip nude, will I?”

If Ned found the question funny, the slight pause before he spoke was the only hint of it.

“No,” said Ned. “You won’t.”

_Oh Christ. TSA of medieval times._

“Fine, go ahead,” he said. He took off his cloak and placed it over the chair. He then tossed the bag to one of the guards and stretched out as another guard stepped forward and started checking him. Honestly the pat-down wasn’t nearly as invasive as his latest airport adventure. He fucking hated the TSA. But it was over quickly. He supposed dangerous items were bigger in these times. If he could sneak a dagger up his ass, that would be a real trick.

Anyway, he relaxed and got his bag back as well with no objections. He placed the bag on the ground next to the chair and waited.

One of the guards turned to Ned.

“Just a razor in the bag, m’Lord.”

Ned almost smiled. “I’m sure I can fight a razor, Trevor. All of you; leave us. Stand at the end of the hall and make sure we’re not disturbed. Ser Rodrik, you’re excused for the evening. Thank you for your company. I’ll see you at dinner later.”

Ser Rodrik and the four guards gave quick bows before leaving, Ser Rodrik giving Clark a warning look before closing the door. There was a silence as Clark listened to the footsteps grow dimmer as they walked away and took their places at the end of the hallway. He turned to see Ned Stark, watching him. He walked forward as calm as he could and stood before the desk. There was no chair.

Ned Stark touched the letter.

“This letter is dated over a month ago. Did you walk all the way here?”

“Yep.”

Ned’s eyes were probing him.

“Do you know what this letter says?” he asked.

Clark shrugged. “No. He said he vouched for me. If he instructed you to kill me or imprison me, I wouldn’t know. Those are still viable options, I guess. I haven’t eaten any bread and salt and those guards in the hall look very scary. The patdown was gentle enough though.”

The only sound after that was the crackling of the fire.

_Okay. Perhaps sarcasm isn’t the best way to go._

“How was Lord Reed?” asked Ned. “How was his health?”

“He looked well. He has the limp still, but he’s alive,” said Clark. He steeled himself for his next sentence. And probably the next few ones after. “Not too bad for a man who stabbed Arthur Dayne in the back.”

Ned kept his seat, but Clark could see his face tighten.

“I don’t judge him,” said Clark. “You should know that I don’t judge him at all for what he did. He wanted to save you. His lord. His friend. If he hadn’t, you would have died. You were disarmed after all.”

Clark forced himself not to panic, for his voice not to shake. Calm would his only hope to get through this.

“Were you there?” Ned asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I wasn’t there, but I saw it.”

“What?”

_Okay, Clark. Try to keep away from riddles in this conversation. If you can._

“Lord Stark, Before I say anything else, you should know; I’m not your enemy. Please keep that in mind when you hear what I have to say.”

All of a sudden, he was thirsty. Not caring that he was probably breaking lord-peasant protocol, he took his waterskin and gulped twice. He turned back to Lord Stark, who seemed quite bewildered.

“Lord Stark, I’ll tell you what I told Lord Reed. I’m no greenseer. I’m not a magician or an oracle. I was not at the Tower in Dorne all those years ago. But for some reason that I can’t explain because I don’t know how, I witnessed what happened and so much more. I’m…” He struggled for the right words and settled for simple. “I’m here because I want to help you. I want to help you and your family. You’re all in great danger. Or rather you will be.”

God, he was messing this up. He could feel his hand trembling and tried to relax. How to explain to a man that his simple life of medieval lordship was about to get really fucking brutal really fucking quick?

“What danger do you speak of?” asked Ned.

Clark drew himself up to full height.

“Before I answer that, I need to give you some evidence that I do know things that I shouldn’t know. So you’ll believe me when I say that you and everyone you know are in great danger.”

He clenched and unclenched his hands.

“The fight between you, your men and the Kingsguard. I could have seen that from a distance.” He lowered his voice. “Did you see me when your sister was dying? Was I in the room?”

The question was rhetorical and Ned seemed to know it. He was staring at Clark with a growing fear, but still calm. Clark pressed on as gently as he could.

“When you entered the room, Lyanna was lying in a bed of blood. You put Dawn at the foot of the bed and greeted her. She told you she wanted to be brave but she was scared. She didn’t want to die. You told her she wouldn’t. You yelled at the girl in the room for water and a maester. Lyanna stopped you, brought you close and whispered the secret you’ve been carrying ever since. Promise me, Ned. Promise me.”

He leaned forward.

“I have no intention of telling this secret to anyone. I will only say it now, just once for you so you know I speak true.”

Ned didn’t reply. His face was pale, but his eyes were bright. Clark swallowed.

“You’re raising the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. To the world, he is your bastard son, Jon Snow. You’re protecting him from Robert’s wrath. His real name is Aegon Targaryen, named for his Conqueror forbearer and his slain brother in King’s Landing. You saw his brother and sister before you set out for Dorne. In the Keep, bleeding through their shrouds. Robert smiled. Dragonspawn.”

It was beginning to rain again. Clark could see the drops splattering against the window. If he wasn’t so tense, he would have rolled his eyes at the timing. So cinematic.

“I say it again: I’ll never speak of this to anyone. That recounting was just for you, so you’ll believe me when I say I know things I shouldn’t. I have something much bigger to tell you. Something concerning your future.”

Ned leaned back. His brow was glistening slightly. Clark couldn’t blame him. He was sweating too.

“Lord Reed says you’re trustworthy.” He traced his hand across the letter again. “He’s very right about these things usually. How did he come to trust you?”

Clark shrugged. “He dreamt about me. He saw me coming up here to guide you.”

“Because you see the future?”

“One future. Based on what I tell you and what you decide to do, things may proceed and be completely different from what I saw. Or maybe nothing will change. Maybe the universe refuses to let you go from your fate.”

Lord Stark’s brow furrowed. “The universe?”

“Nevermind. Listen, you are in great danger. Or you will be, in a few years…I’ve said that already. Sorry. I…look, I’m just going to come out and say it. The White Walkers are coming back.”

Now there was silence. Lord Stark remained seated. The fear that built up during the story of the Tower of Joy was replaced by incredulity. He didn’t laugh though.

“White Walkers have been gone for thousands of years.”

Clark sighed. “Yeah, well, they’re coming back. It’s shit luck for you…well, actually shit luck for your kids. You didn’t worry about this from what I saw.”

“What?”

_Okay. I need to sit._

“I’m sorry. I don’t know proper behavior for meeting with a Warden, but I’m going to use this.” Clark turned and picked up one of the chairs from the hearth. He placed it in front of the desk and sat, his head in his hands. He took a few seconds before looking up. Ned’s bewilderment was back.

_All right. Here we go_.

“I don’t know how much I should tell you. The visions I saw of the future were spread across a decade. We’ll be here all night if I tell you everything. And if you decide to act on any of this, I’m certain quite a few details will become useless. So here’s the short version of the visions. Are you ready?”

Ned’s mouth was slightly open. He still managed to look quite dignified. It must be a lord’s thing. Clark clapped his hands together.

“All right then. Years from now, the White Walkers are going to begin to show activities near the Wall. Free Folk villages will disappear. So will Rangers from the Night’s Watch. There’ll be more deserters. The Walkers start to show. Odds are they’re probably already showing themselves to the free folk beyond the wall. Maybe the northernmost tribes. Starting the recruitment for their army. In the future I saw, this contributed greatly to their Army of the Dead. They became wights, reanimated corpses to act as soldiers. Over one hundred thousand of them. Lots of dead people up there.

“Now that would be devastating for the North and the rest of the Kingdoms on a regular day. You….well, you and your…Oh god, you…well, you’re…”

He immediately shut up. A big information dump was not the best way to go about this. He had a few years to go before Baelor. That reveal could come at another time.

“The other part of this is you. Humans. The different kingdoms. There’s going to be a war that will rip apart Westeros. Many of the best warriors will die. Food storages will be depleted. All the usual outcomes of armed conflict. This war will take place on the tail end of the longest summer in living memory, which will probably be after this winter. That summer will turn into the coldest winter. And that winter will bring the Walkers and their army. The North was in poor condition. The living managed to win, but at a steep cost. Before the Wall came down, they had already lost so much to each other.”

Ned leaned forward. “The Wall came down?”

Clark shrugged. “Section of it. At Eastwatch. Large enough to let an army of at least a hundred thousand corpses walk through.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you yet. I’ve omitted many details for what I hope are good reasons. Saying how the Wall fell doesn’t feel necessary at this point. You’ll need to secure the North, reach out to the Free Folk, negotiate a truce, whatever you need to do. I’m no military man and you know this country better than I do. But the real threat is people. You will lose more of your family to conniving men than you will to the monsters beyond the Wall. If I earn your trust and you like me enough to keep me around, I’ll try and keep all of you alive and away from treachery. Away from the connivers. Keep the North healthy enough to prevent a total massacre.

“Then again, if you want me to fuck off, I can do that as well. This is your fight. I just wanna help.”

He hoped in his future conversations with Ned Stark that the man wouldn’t take long pauses after every sentence. Not that he blamed him. A skinny weirdo turning up knowing a devastating secret and pronouncing doom for all had to be off-putting.

“Why?” said Lord Stark, the rumble of his voice barely above the flames. “Why do you want to help us? Help my family specifically?”

Clark sat back, sighing. “Throughout the visions, in between all the terrible things that happened to your family, I grew familiar with you. Not now, of course. Most of the visions are of your future. I saw your children grown. Your home. Your private moments. Of which I won’t speak. I grew to like your family. You weren’t the only ones. I saw others throughout the seven kingdoms and across the sea. I liked them too. However, the North is the frontier to the White Walker threat and the North will be battered heavily by war and will be ill-prepared for the cold. I want to protect people I care for.

“I also am looking for a new home. Despite the bleak future I described, I like the North. I’ve felt at home since I’ve arrived.”

Ned’s gaze turned even more inquisitive. If that were possible.

“Where is your home?”

Clark tried to take Annag’s advice and come up with a better lie. Unfortunately, being in front of a man whose honesty and honor had been the death of him prompted Clark to the truth…or at least, not to lie.

“I can’t explain it,” he said. “I don’t know how. All I can say is that I’ve traveled across spaces that don’t exist to be here. I came to Westeros and I learned that my old world is forever closed to me. So this has to be my new home. I hope it will be Winterfell or somewhere in the North, but if not…”

Clark trailed off. He tried to read Ned’s face, but it was closed.

“I don’t know anyone. I don’t have anyone. Everything I’ve known is gone. So if you decide I’m too dangerous to be alive, I suppose you could kill me with little to no hassle. No one will come looking for me.”

Ned stood up.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said. Clark breathed. “I told you Howland Reed trusts you and I trust Howland Reed. He recommends you stay here.”

“Do you believe me then?” asked Clark, not daring to hope.

Ned rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You were a phantom at my sister’s death. You heard her final words. You saw my infant nephew. You shouldn’t have been able to see that. Perhaps that means you do see a future that we could avoid.

“But what if you’re wrong? You’re talking of events and persons and wars that won’t come into play for many years. You’re giving vague rumblings of connivers and monsters. You won’t even tell me who died. How do I work with that? How do I prepare? How am I to keep you here under that arrangement? As a resident oracle? There are wood witches for that sort of thing.”

Ned paused. Clark’s stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly. He hadn’t eaten anything for several hours.

“Are you hungry?”

Clark nodded. “Very.”

Ned walked around the desk, standing in front. He picked up Clark’s knife off the desk.

“I don’t know what arrangement I can make for you. Do you have any skills?”

“Archival work. I can read and write and be dumb muscle. I sing well too.”

Ned almost chuckled. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow. I’m not promising you can stay, but for tonight, I offer you food, a bed and a bath, should you want it.”

Clark stood up. “Yes, Lord Stark. I would like that very much. Thank you.”

Ned nodded. “Then, let’s go down for supper. You’ll be my guest. Put the chair back.”

He turned to the door as Clark placed the chair back in front of the fire. Putting the chair down, Clark got an idea.

“Lord Stark?” he asked. “Do you have any wards?”

Ned looked confused. “I think you’re a little old to be a ward.”

“No, I’m just asking you. Do you have a ward? Now? Here in Winterfell?”

The suspicion was back in Ned’s eyes. “No, I don’t.”

Clark stepped forward.

“I understand that a decade is a long time to wait to see if my visions hold true. So let me give another event that I’ve foreseen. In a short time, the Iron Islands will rebel. Balon Greyjoy will declare himself King and he will attack. He’ll start with Lannisport, burning the Lannister fleet.”

Ned’s hand was still on the door handle. Clark tried not to swallow too loudly.

“I don’t recommend you do anything to stop it. There are people who should die on the Islands. They’ll make life difficult for you if they live. Keep me on for a year. When they attack, I’ll give you more information if it’s necessary. For now, just know: Lannisport will be first and the Lannister fleet will be destroyed.”

Several seconds of silence followed.

“Is that all?” asked Ned, his composure back.

Clark thought. “I think so. Yeah. I hope you forgive me. It’s my first time being a soothsayer. Am I still invited to dinner?”

He couldn’t tell Ned’s mood. The man was just regarding him, not knowing what to make of him. Clark waited, hoping to whatever brought him to Westeros that he hadn’t fucked this up.

Ned opened the door.

“Of course, follow me.”

Well, not now, at least. As far as he could tell.

He followed Ned Stark to the end of the hall, where the guards straightened. He was sure that they didn’t expect the conversation to take this long.

“At ease,” said Ned. The guards relaxed, a few eyeing Clark suspiciously. “Thank you for your vigil. Did anyone come up to see me?”

“Just the Lady Stark’s handmaid, m’Lord, the new one” said the tallest guard. “Lady Stark wanted to know if you were coming soon to supper. We didn’t say either way. We didn’t know.”

“That’s fine,” said Ned. “All of you are dismissed for the evening. I’m sure I’ll survive until the night guards go on duty.”

There was a chorus of “thank you, m’lord” and short bows all around. Lord Stark turned and walked back where they had walked previously, Clark keeping behind him.

“Lord Stark,” he said, as they turned the corner. “May I have my knife back, please?”

“Certainly.” Ned took the knife out and handed it to him, Clark sheathing it. There was no more conversation for the rest of the walk. They entered the dining hall. It was no nowhere near as crowded as the feast for Robert’s arrival or the celebration after the Battle for Winterfell. Ned and Clark walked through the rows of long tables, the few occupants pausing their conversation and nodding to Ned. Clark met a few curious eyes as well. He nodded politely back to them, trying to keep his excitement down. They were approaching a group of people at the end of a long table. A woman with dark red hair was sitting with several children…

She turned to them when they reached the table. Ned went behind her, gripping her shoulders affectionately.

“Hello Ned,” said Catelyn. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Cat, everything’s fine,” Ned said lightly. “Evening, children.”

“Evening, Father” said the two oldest children of Ned and Catelyn Stark. Robb and Sansa were following the gaze of their mother, who was looking at Clark with polite curiosity.

“Do we have a guest for dinner, Ned?” asked Catelyn.

“We do.” Ned gestured to the bench for Clark to sit. “Children, Cat, this is Tiresias. He traveled here from the Neck. He has walked all the way and he’s very tired. Be gentle with him.”

Clark nodded to Catelyn. “Lady Stark, it’s lovely to see you. Forgive me for intruding upon your meal. I could sit elsewhere and give your family privacy.”

“Nonsense,” Catelyn said. “Please sit. My husband usually brings someone up to sup with us in the evenings. Are you hungry?”

Clark sat, placing his bag under the bench. “Very.”

“Good. You will be fed shortly. Are you staying the night?”

He looked to Ned for that one. One night sure. But as for the future…

Ned placed his cup down. “He’s our guest for the foreseeable future. For one night at least. Although Lord Reed did recommend him for work.”

“What sort of trade have you, Tiresias?” asked Cat.

A serving woman set a cup in front of Clark and poured him some ale.

“Thank you,” he said, catching her eye before she took off. He turned to the table and saw the big eyes of Robb and Sansa following him. He leaned toward them, with an air of conspiracy. 

“I’m tamer of lizard lions. I’m here to domesticate your lizard lions and ride them to glory. Where do your lizard lions roam, young lord and lady?”

Robb laughed, but Sansa looked quite serious.

“We don’t have any lizard lions in Winterfell, your Lordship” she said.

Tiresias leaned back, sighed and took a sip of ale.

“Well, that’s too bad,” he said. “I suppose I’ll have to do something else. And I’m no lord, my lady. I’m just Tiresias. What are your names?”

Sansa drew herself up. “My name is Sansa Stark. This is my older brother, Robb.”

Robb gave something of a greeting with a mouth full of bread, earning him a light reprimand from Catelyn. Clark turned to his left. There was a chubby toddler with dark hair who was staring at him and making a mess of her dinner at the same time. She had grey eyes.

“Can you tell me your name?” asked Clark gently. He tried not to think about his own niece back home, only two years of age herself.

It took a few seconds, but Clark clearly heard her say “Arya.”

“How old are you, Arya?”

She raised her hand and lifted two fingers.

“That’s pretty old,” said Clark.

“No, it’s not,” said Sansa across the table.

Clark fought the temptation to raise his eyebrows. “Forgive me, my lady,” said Clark. “Where I come from, two-year-olds are practically adults.”

Sansa looked suspicious. “That’s not true”

Clark sighed dramatically. “You’re right. It’s not. I’m just being silly. How old are you?”

The rest of the evening meal passed evenly enough. Clark spoke to Robb, Sansa and Arya for a few more minutes until he and Ned received their food. It was a savory chicken thigh with roasted potato and parsnips. He ate more than one serving. He wasn’t sure if he was being rude for overeating. But in all fairness, being on the road for months made him less anxious about taking free food. Plus they did offer multiple helpings.

Throughout the meal, Clark kept looking to the Stark family. He hoped he was discrete but he couldn’t help it. There was another toddler younger than Arya in Catelyn’s arms. He deduced it was Bran early on and indeed Catelyn confirmed that, helping Bran as he put most of his dinner on his face.

So Rickon was further down the line. Clark wondered where the other boy was…

His question was answered when his second serving arrived. Arya, with her parsnips smeared on her face, lit up and called “Jon!”

He looked up to see a small, slender boy with black hair sit next to Robb and smile at Arya. Clark tried to stay calm and chanced a glance at Catelyn Stark. She was fine, but he could definitely see a little tension. Next to her, Ned Stark was staring at him with slight apprehension. He smiled and nodded, hoping to convey that the secret was safe for now. Probably didn’t work. He turned to Jon, who was eyeing him warily. A stranger at the table.

“Is your name Jon?” Clark said, after swallowing some chicken.

Jon nodded. “Jon Snow,” he said for clarification.

Clark held out his hand to shake. Jon took it hesitantly. “Hello Jon Snow. My name is Tiresias. It’s good to meet you. I was enjoying the company of your brother and sisters. Your other brother is too busy down there.”

A full plate was put in front of Jon and he began to eat. He was polite but he still ate quickly.

“Where were you, Jon?” asked Robb. “We wanted to wait, but Mum made us start.”

Jon shrugged. “Lost track of time.”

Clark sipped his ale. It was a clear lie. The same tone that Jon used when Robb asked about his mother in the second episode and Jon said that she was very kind. He was sure that Jon was indeed checking the dining hall to make sure that Ned had joined the table before he joined them himself. He doubted that Catelyn would refuse the boy supper, but all the time, Ned was a shield that Jon wanted for family time.

“Tir...Tiresa…” said Robb, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Tiresias,” said Clark slowly. “How can I help you?”

“Are you from the Neck? Are you a crannogman?” he asked.

Clark shook his head. “No, little lord. I was only their guest. They saved me from the swamp and escorted me to Moat Cailin.”

Robb stared at him. “You talk strange. Where are you from?”

“Robb,” said Catelyn, her eyes bright. “You can ask our guest questions without telling him he speaks strangely. I’m sorry, Tiresias.”

“It’s all right, Lady Stark, it’s all right,” said Clark. He cut his potato into sections, careful not to eat too quickly. “I come from Essos. My parents were nomads. Didn’t stay anywhere long enough for an accent. I arrived in Westeros only a few months ago. I walked all the way here from King’s Landing.”

“Can’t you ride a horse?” asked Jon.

“Not well,” said Clark.

Robb piped up. “I can. I’m the best rider in the family.”

“You’re the best pony rider in the family,” said Jon.

“That counts!”

The rest of the meal continued this way. Clark was barraged by questions. He answered a couple. The children would go off on a tangent and he would be relieved. Only to face a different question when he swallowed his food. He didn’t mind at all though. Besides the fact that he was both freaked out and really excited to see the Stark children all much younger, he actually really liked kids. Conversations with his two year niece would last for a solid time. Ned and Catelyn occasionally tried to get the children to stop bothering him, but it was nothing doing. As a result, dinner was substantial but eaten slowly.

After bread and red wine (for the adults), Clark could barely keep his eyes open. Catelyn, ever the hostess, saw his weariness and called to him.

“You look like you need some sleep. Would you care for a bath or would you simply like to go to bed?”

“Hmm,” said Clark, before turning to his tiny dinner mates. “What do you think? Do I need a bath? Do I stink?”

Robb, Sansa and Jon all laughed, with Arya joining them out of solidarity. Sighing, Clark turned back to Catelyn.

“I think the consensus is yes, I need a bath. The children are repulsed by me.”

He rejoiced a little, seeing Lady Catelyn swallowed her own laughter before responding. One small victory.

“Very well. We’ll send you along to the springs. Hals here will escort you. Hals!” she called.

A portly man of medium height appeared.

“Would you please escort our guest to the hot springs for bath? Make sure he has fresh soap?”

Hals gave a bow. “Of course, my lady.” He came to Clark, with a gesture for the exit. “This way, please.”

Clark stood and nodded to Ned and Cat. “Thank you, Lady and Lord Stark, for your hospitality. I look forward to speaking to you again tomorrow.”

“Of course,” said Catelyn. “It’s good to have you. Sleep well.”

Ned nodded back, his eyes not quite as relaxed as Clark would have like. Oh well, no matter. He had a bed tonight. That was the important bit. He turned to the children and bowed.

“Good night, my lords and ladies. I hope to see you again.”

All bade him good night as he turned and followed Hals out of the hall.

Twenty minutes later, he was squatting nude next to a spring, wet and scrubbing himself vigorously. Two months of filth was caked onto his skin. Turns out wading in the river robustly without soap wasn’t a very effective way to clean oneself. He scrubbed, then rinsed and then scrubbed again. After he was rinsed for the final time, he felt more raw than clean. The dirt was gone but so was any moisture and natural oil from his skin.

After drying, he made the decision to forgo the hosen and just wear the trousers. He could feel the dirty clothing all the more after the cleanse. Hals was waiting for him to come out. Upon seeing him, he promptly escorted him to the guest chambers.

As they walked, Clark asked. “Excuse me, Hals. Would it be possible to borrow a laundry bucket or such?”

“Would you like some laundry done?” asked Hals. “I can give your clothes tonight to the maids. They can clean them tonight and have them ready for tomorrow morning.”

Clark stared. “I don’t want to keep servants up and away from sleep for some clothes, Hals. I can do them in the morning.”

“The maids are part of the evening round. They do the nightly duties, which include some errant laundry and they prepare for the morning servants. It’s no trouble to them.”

_Well…shit._

“So barely any trouble?”

“None at all.”

“All right…I’ll take your word for it. Thank you, Hals.”

“Not at all…” Hals looked to Clark questioningly.

Clark shifted his bag. “Tiresias.”

That was the last word exchanged that evening. Hals brought Clark to a small room with a bed and a table with a pitcher and basin on top. There was a lit candle. Clark gave all four items of clothing to Hals (he turned around as Clark removed his trousers), and also the boots to be cleaned. Clark thanked him and closed the door. He dropped the bag on the floor. He checked the bed for any bugs and then fell on top of it. The world seemed to spin from the booze and food, the heat from the bath, the end of the trek and the euphoria of finally reaching Winterfell.

He smiled. The dizziness felt so grand and he could sense sleep coming on. He summoned the last of his energy to raise his head and blow out the candle, before collapsing onto the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Clark is in Winterfell! Thank you again for your kudos and your comments.
> 
> See you again next Monday. I hope you all have a good week!


	8. Chapter Eight

Clark had not had a proper bed for three months. He’d gotten used to the uneven earth under him and the fresh air that greeted him every morning. He woke up in Winterfell, fighting back a slight surprise to find himself indoors and on a level mattress.

However he was well-rested, having being so tired last night to think any of this. He got up from the bed and went through his morning stretches. He massaged his feet and wished he had his tennis ball to roll under his arches. His feet stopped complaining after a few weeks but they were still too tight. He went to the basin and poured some water into it, splashing himself lightly to wake up. Then he made the bed, pulling the covers taut.

That about covered all he could possible do in the room. He wanted to get out, eat breakfast and explore. Unfortunately he was still naked. Hoping to God that there was nobody in the corridor, he creaked the door open and looked down.

His clothes were folded in a neat pile on the floor next to a pair of boots that seemed way too clean to be his. He gathered them quickly and got inside. He placed the clothes on the bed. They all felt clean, and warm too. Clark brought the shirt to his face and smelled. Smoke from a fire. They must have just been deposited.

Clark dressed quickly, enjoying the clean wool on his skin. It didn’t even itch anymore. He couldn’t help but smile as he put on his boots. He left the room, leaving his cloak and his rucksack behind. He felt a little ridiculous, wearing a belt for his knife, but he was always glad to have it when he needed it.

Not knowing exactly where breakfast would be served, he wandered the halls of the castle. He saw a few corridors that looked familiar but ultimately he knew he would have to relearn everything about Winterfell and not keeping falling back on the show.

He exited a door into the main courtyard. The same one where he waited yesterday. Everyone was already awake and moving. It was a little too early for the harvest deliveries en route to storage, but there were still people working. Clark walked along the edges. He could smell iron works from the forge, wherever that was. He really wanted to eat, but he also really didn’t want to ask anyone for directions. He didn’t want to treat this place like a hotel. Determined to figure it out, he made a guess and walked to the biggest building he could see or the keep, as he should probably call it.

His guess proved correct, as smells of meat and hot bread wafted through the air. One corner and he found himself in the main hall. Same as last night. He looked to the front and saw Catelyn there with Bran. He was attempting to eat porridge.

“Good morning, Tiresias,” she said as he approached. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you,” he said. “Hals was kind enough to take these clothes down for a wash. And whomever was down there was kind enough to do them. He wasn’t lying when he said there are servants who worked during the night for these sorts of things, was he? I’d hate himself if I kept a poor girl up all night for laundry.”

“No, he was telling the truth. Please don’t worry. Compare to what the children put them through, one set of clothes won’t break their backs. Please, sit. Are you hungry?”

Clark sat down. A serving girl came up for his order. After settling for water over ale and ordering some bacon, eggs and bread, he and Catelyn talked for a while. It was strange. This woman was a genuinely good host and an engaging conversationalist. It was easy to forget her anger for Jon and what he meant to her. That was her weakness, it seemed. Clark felt no guilt about befriending her. If he was going to stay at Winterfell, it was essential that he charm the Lady of the castle. Or at least be on friendly terms with her.

He was wiping his plate with bread getting the last of his egg yolk when Ned entered the hall. He chewed quickly and managed to swallow and stand before Ned reached them.

“Lord Stark,” Clark greeted. “Good morning.”

Ned nodded. “Morning, Tiresias. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you. It was good to sleep in a bed for once.”

Ned patted Bran’s head, smoothing his hair down.

“If you’re done with breakfast, I would like to continue our conversation.”

Clark drained his cup. “Of course.”

Ned turned to Catelyn. “I’ll see you and the children in the evening. Do you need anything?”

“I’ll be fine. Go be a serious Warden.”

Ned smiled, bending down and kissing her on the cheek. “All right. Have a good day.” He turned to Clark. “Come with me.”

Clark nodded goodbye to Catelyn and proceeded to follow Ned. Five minutes later, he was walking through an archway, which opened up onto what Clark thought was a forest…

_No…no, the godswood._

Once again, he had to make a conscious effort not to stop and gape. He’d always loved the outdoors and he found a forest infinitely more sacred than any church he had entered. But there was something different here. Something that made his skin tingle. He wasn’t frightened though. The sensation that pervaded here was benevolent. Or at least not malevolent. There was magic here. He could feel it.

Thankfully he didn’t miss a beat in following Ned Stark deeper into the godswood. He didn’t think he’d get lost, but it was bigger than he expected. Finally they came to the pool, with the weirwood tree right next to it. Clark stared at the tree, coming closer to the carved face that was forever watching.

“I’ll take you on for one year.” Ned Stark’s voice cut through the spell and birdsong seem to echo through the godswood. Clark turned to see Ned. He was staring at the pool.

“Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“I spoke with Maester Luwin last night. Most of the positions here which require literacy are taken. I can’t take you on as a steward. You’re too old and you’re a stranger.”

He turned to Clark.

“You have experience in archives, you said?”

“Aye, I do.”

“How do you feel about libraries?”

Clark blinked. “I love them. Very peaceful.”

“Our library in the tower is kept in relatively good condition by Maester Luwin but he has to balance it with all his regular duties. We haven’t had a proper librarian in decades. Winterfell hasn’t required it.”

“And now?”

Ned had something of a smile on his face. “We’re going to expand. I want to expand. That’s what we’ll say. The North cannot neglect its literary history anymore. The library now is only at half capacity. At least according to Maester Luwin. So we commit to one year of your services and we see whether or not this is a venture worth continuing.”

Clark let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Thank you, Lord Stark. I…I don’t know what to say, but thank you.”

“You will have to actually work as a librarian. And give everyone ample reason to see you as such. If you cannot, the only work I can offer is simple labour, to whomever needs it.”

“I promise, Lord Stark,” said Clark. “You’ll have your library.”

Ned nodded and a silence fell on the godswood. Clark didn’t trust it.

“Why are we here?” asked Clark. “You didn’t need to take me into the godswood to offer me the position of Winterfell’s librarian?”

Ned Stark turned to Clark and looked him directly in the eyes for the first time. It was all Clark could do not to blink.

“If the attack on Lannisport happens as you’ve foreseen, people will die.”

Clark sighed. “I imagine so. The fleet will be the main casuality.”

“And you wish for me to do nothing. Wait for them to strike. Not warn the Westerlands?”

“How are you going to warn Tywin Lannister?” asked Clark. “What are you going to say? That a stranger has wandered into your home, giving you glimpses of the future? Are you going to tell him what I said to you to make you believe me?”

“Of course not.” said Ned. His voice remained calm, though his eyes shone brightly. “But we are speaking of an entire city. An Ironborn raid is devastating to those who aren’t prepared for it.”

“Do you believe me then that it will happen?”

“I don’t know,” said Ned. “But the Iron Islands have been quiet lately. It wouldn’t be out of the question for them to attack and test Robert’s reign. Whoever dies because we say nothing, their blood will be on our hands.”

“You’re the Lord of the North, not the Westerlands.”

“That doesn’t matter. For all I know, they could just as easily attack any port city on the Northern shore instead of Lannisport.”

There was an unnatural quiet in the godswood for a while. Even the birdsong was gone.

“Have you sent any letters about this, Lord Stark? Have you told anyone?”

Ned shook his head. “No, I haven’t."

“Lord Stark,” Clark began, his voice soft. “When I started my journey here and I was going through all the possible things that I could do to help you and your family, I made a realization early on. I realized…that I was not going to be able to save everyone. If I could guide people through what I’ve seen coming and lose no one, I would. But that’s not possible. People are going to have to die. My goal is to make sure that significantly less people do this time around.

“Now, as for the Ironborn, there are some good people there, but they’re not in power now. Balon, his brother Euron, and his two oldest sons will be thorns in your side. They will strike Lannisport. They will kill and then you and the lords of Westeros will have cause to eliminate them.

“What I’m suggesting is not honorable. And perhaps it was unfair of me to share my burden with you. You don’t want innocents to die. But the Iron Islands cannot be left to their own devices. They will endanger your family. And as we both know, you are able to sacrifice honor for the safety of your family.”

Ned gave him a sharp look. Clark raised his hands.

“No judgment on my part. I’d done the same.”

Ned’s eyes relaxed. He sighed and Clark, for the first time, noticed the bags under his eyes.

“I take it you didn’t sleep.”

Ned laughed softly, his eyes falling to the pool again. “No.”

Clark stepped forward and dropped his voice, even though he was sure no one was around.

“Please, I implore you, for the sake of your future and the safety of your family, don’t say anything about Lannisport. Wait for them. Let them burn the fleet. It is essential that they draw first blood.”

He held his breath, waiting for Ned to acquiesce. Finally the Lord of Winterfell looked him in the eyes.

“I’ll be silent and wait.”

Clark breathed.

“Thank you, Lord Stark.”

Ned nodded and turned, exiting the godswood. “We should find you a better room if you’re staying for one year. After midday you should go to the library tower. Maester Luwin is there right now, in the middle of lessons for Jon and Robb. When he’s free, he can take you through, show you what we have, what we want. I gave him a list of ideas last night. You can add your own and he’ll run them by me. You’ll be answering to him now. As for payment, we can discuss before lunch…”

Ned carried on as he walked and Clark followed him, turning back to see the weirwood tree and the face in the white bark staring back at him.

_Are you watching me now, Three-Eyed Raven? Are you back in your past, Bran and seeing me? Do you know where I come from? And how I know you? Will you visit me in my dreams too? Let me know if I’m doing good? Or if I’m completely just fucking this up?_

The tree didn’t answer and Clark turned back to Ned Stark, narrowly avoiding a trip from a protruding root.

* * *

Clark stopped by his previous room to grab his rucksack and cloak, following Lord Stark deeper into the keep to the bigger guest rooms. He opened the door and was given the key. A bigger bed greeted him with a small hearth opposite. There was a desk topped with parchment, quills and inkwells. There was a window that opened, facing east. An empty drawer dresser stood next to it, along with a table with a basin and pitcher.

In short, it was luxury for a man who had traveled months on the road and who had no extra clothes to fill the drawers. Clark thanked Ned Stark profusely, who brushed them off. Once the rucksack and cloak were deposited and the key was in his trouser pocket, Clark followed Ned as he was shown the rest of the castle. The tour took a solid hour at least and they were not taking their time. It was a massive castle and Clark found himself doing double takes as he recognized one section after another from the show. It was invaluable to have it all laid out for him this way and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

Lunch was a muted casual affair. Ned Stark showed him the kitchen and walked off to attend other duties after he gave Clark directions to the library tower. Grabbing a sausage and apple, Clark found a quiet corner to munch and watch. There were house guards and servants sitting down to eat when they could. Clark saw a few eyes wander over to him. He nodded and gave a small smile to each. He hardly received any in return, but he saw no reason to show how nervous he was.

On his way out, he saw Jon Snow enter the kitchens and approach the bakers. He chatted a little with the eldest one, a stout woman with quick hands that shaped dough like magic. She handed him a bread roll and shooed him away kindly, her eyes laughing. Jon turned and caught his eyes. Knowing he had to get to the library, Clark waved and walked away.

He arrived in the library with no trouble from the directions. Maester Luwin wasn’t there yet, so Clark walked back and forth between the shelves. He took a book out and sighed in relief. It was a little fancy and contained vocabulary to the time, but it was still modern English. He had listened to authentic old English a few times on Youtube and it was a whole different language to him. He thought back to the farmer and his wife as he stood outside their house nude. If they spoke anything other than modern day English or German, he would have been screwed.

Clark was still perusing through the book (“The Last Gardener King”) when he heard the library door open. He placed the book back on the shelf and moved out of the shelves. There was an older man in robes and chains moving to meet him. The last time Clark had seen this man, he was lying mortally wounded in the godswood.

Maester Luwin was just as bald as he was on the show, but the remaining hair was significantly less grey. Clark moved to him, extending his hand.

“You must be Maester Luwin,” he said, careful to keep too much affection from his voice. “It’s great to see you. I’ve heard good things about you.”

Maester Luwin smiled amiably, but his eyes were still sharp and a little suspicious. He shook Clark’s hand.

“You must be our new librarian, then. Lord Stark gave me your name, Tiresias?” he asked. “Am I pronouncing that correctly?”

“You are.”

“Robb and Jon told me about you. Only good things as well.”

“They’re good boys. Are they good readers as well?”

Maester Luwin shrugged. “Well enough. Robb’s a little impatient, but he’s fine. Jon’s quiet but even now he doesn’t see a future for him that requires more than a basic understanding of words. You won’t find them here in their free time.”

They walked along the shelves. Luwin pulled some books and rolls off the shelves.

“However,” continued Luwin. “With you as the new librarian, that may change. They’re very intrigued with you.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, they say you speak strangely.” They came to a table and Luwin placed the scrolls and books he gathered down. “I must say I agree with them. I’ve never heard your accent before. Where are you from?”

“Essos. My parents were nomads so I never stayed anywhere long enough to capture an accent.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’m just a freak of nature.”

Luwin chuckled. “Perhaps. Do you really ride lizard lions to glory?”

Clark shook his head. “Nah. Got too fat for them.”

Luwin gave a tut-tut with his tongue. “Pity.” He opened a volume. “Did Lord Stark give any instructions on what he wanted for revitalizing and building the library?”

Clark shrugged. “Only that he wanted to expand and that the North has neglected its literary history. How much of it of a history is it?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. The North is older than the other kingdoms, but most of its stories were passed on orally and its earliest histories were spoken of in the Old Tongue, which many don’t speak anymore. Only a few tribes can decipher the runes of the few volumes we have. I’ve heard many wildings speak it still, but a Warden of the North cannot bring them into Winterfell. Not without retaliation from the other lords.”

Having picked up a volume from the table, Clark sifted through the pages, his fingers trailing the runes. “We’ll see about that. It’ll do well to understand what we actually have in the Old Tongue. What else?”

Luwin handed him another tome. “Histories, sciences. A complete recounting of Westeros. With Essos second and whatever we can find about Sothoryos and Ulthos. Obviously what we can’t compete with the Citadel’s collection. We don’t have the capacity or the manpower to maintain such an archive. But a sufficient collection of worldly knowledge kept safe in one of the most impregnable holds in Westeros? I think it’s a good venture.”

Clark placed the volume down. “I’m not usurping your position as librarian too harshly, am I?

“Hardly. I’m glad for the help. I’ll need it for what we’re about to embark on. Someone to organize, travel and collect. I don’t know why Lord Stark is only committing to one year of your services. This is a decade long venture at least.”

It certainly seemed that way. They went through a basic list of the current collection at Winterfell (which would need to be audited), which subjects were needed more of and a starting plan for gathering said volumes. They next addressed the capacity. The shelves were almost full, but it was quite spacious and the shelves themselves were old and weak. Replacing the shelves and redesigning the layout would nearly double their capacity. Luwin gave him the name of the carpenter in Winterfell and promised to speak to him the following day.

The last thing they discussed was the temporary storage of the materials in the library during the remodel. Luwin gave him a list of books to pull from the shelves which he planned to assign Robb, Jon and Sansa during construction.

“They’ll be disappointed to hear that they won’t be getting a break from their studies,” said Clark, as he walked Luwin to the door.

“Perhaps,” said Luwin. “If they make a fuss, I’ll remind them how more they’ll have to read once the library is rebuilt.”

“That would be grand.” Clark was about to say goodbye, when he remembered. “Master Luwin?”

“Yes?”

“Would you happen to have any astronomy books or celestial maps on hand?”

Luwin pursed his lips, thinking. He then gave a nod. “Yes, I think we have a few here. Interested in the stars?”

“I am. They’re a little far away, but I still think they’re very pretty.”

Smiling, Luwin walked back and gathered a few books from a low shelf, waving off Clark’s attempt to help him.

“I can still gather volumes by myself, thank you,” he said, handing the volumes over to Clark. “We’ll need to make sure that the full contents of the library are still accessible, during the remodel.”

Clark nodded. “We will.”

Luwin stood back up. “Well, Tiresias. Thank you for your help. I look forward to working with you. If you’d excuse me.”

With that, the maester exited the library. Clark spent the rest of the afternoon, gathering the volumes that Luwin wrote down for the children’s lessons. His heart was light as he passed over the pages and pages in the big room. Even the runes that he couldn’t read gave him joy. He had no way to know if he would ever get tired of reading. But it comforted him greatly to know that in the middle of trying to alter the future of Westeros, he had this library as a retreat.

_At least for the year_. _I’ll be right fucked if the Ironborn don’t attack. I just hope my memory’s good on that bit of trivia._

* * *

Later that night, Clark was atop the battlements, along the castle walls. He sat at a small table, topped with a lantern (which took him twenty minutes to figure out how to use) and a celestial map, detailing the autumn night sky. He was determined to find a constellation to settle him, a replacement for Orion. Lucky for him, the rain clouds had blown away and it was a clear night. The stars shone brightly, despite the numerous torches and fires provided by Winterfell.

He took a swig of water from his skin and looked back up, from consulting the map. He found a few planets, or wanderers as the map called them. The red one was the most prominent. Each planet was equated to a god of the Seven and this was the Smith.

He also found several constellations to choose from. He saw the Shadowcat, Annag’s favorite and decided to let her have that one. Hanging low in the west was the Crone’s Lantern. Up in the northeast was the Ice Dragon. The moon was accompanied by the Moonmaid at this hour. The east had the Sword of the Morning and right above (Clark had to crane his neck for this one) was the King’s Crown.

Like the constellations back in his world, they required a bit of imagination but ultimately they came to life before him. As if tonight, the universe decided to showcase itself to one tiny outsider in Winterfell.

So Clark spent a good couple hours that night, both losing himself to the stars and listening to the hubbub around the castle. His spot was a good perch for him to take in the activity below. Not that he was particularly well-hidden, in fact some house guards were patrolling right next to him (he exchanged greetings and names amiably), but people seemed to forget that they were people above them. He heard laughter from some housemaids, the clinks of iron from the forge, singing from the hall, it all became a soothing background for him and his stargazing.

As he was beginning to pack up and go to bed, he heard something from the battlements. Something that was different than anything he had heard tonight. It was coming from the training yard. He focused his ears on the area, blocking out everything else…something was being struck again and again. The beats were erratic and they were accompanied by cries and grunts. They belonged to a young child…

Clark quickly put his map away, picked up the lantern and followed the cries to the training yard. He found himself on the balcony overlooking the yard (he had meant to be on the ground, but he was still learning the castle’s layout). He blew out his lamp and peered down.

Jon Snow was alone in the yard and hitting a dummy with a wooden sword. The torch next to him was lit and it illuminated his face, streaked with tears. His strikes came clumsily, but they were quick. He couldn’t have been training for more than a year at least.

Clark looked around for stairs but couldn’t see any. He looked over the balcony.

_Not a far jump. All right then._

He put the lamp down, climbed over the railing and dropped to the ground below. He prepared for some pain, but none came. It was a loud landing though and Jon whirled around to see him come slowly to a stand. Jon looked at him in bewilderment before realizing he was still crying and turned away, wiping away his tears furiously.

Clark stepped forward to the dummy. He examined it for a minute before turning to Jon.

“I think he’s dead.”

Jon fixed him with a withering stare. Clark continued.

“Or at least severely wounded.”

“Please don’t laugh at me,” Jon mumbled, his gaze turning to the ground.

Clark sighed. He remembered being a kid and having his anger laughed at too.

“I’m sorry, Jon. I won’t laugh at you.” Clark walked over and squatted in front of Jon. “When I was a kid, I got very upset too sometimes. My mother taught me a technique to feel better. Would you like me to show it to you?”

He hoped he was reading the situation right. Ultimately though, Jon raised his head and looked at him with watery dark eyes. He nodded.

Clark had Jon sit next to him and lead him through the breathing technique that he employed so much of the last few months. Breathe in slowly, hold it and let go on a count. Repeat if necessary. It took a few times, but soon Jon was relaxed, his voice freed up from the strain of trying not to cry.

“Do you feel better?” asked Clark.

Jon nodded.

“Good.” He walked over to the dummy and picked up the sword. “Do you come here when you’re upset?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

A shrug was his only answer. Clark brought the wooden sword to his shoulder.

“Was it something someone had said?”

Jon looked at his feet.

“Do you want to say who it was?”

Jon shook his head.

“It’s all right. You don’t have to say.” Clark swung the sword, absent-mindedly. He then gripped the sword with both of his hands. He brought the sword to the dummy and connected it with the neck, feeling the jolt run down his arm. He turned to see Jon watching him.

“Was that a good strike?”

“No,” said Jon. “Your grip is wrong.” He seemed to realize what he said and looked down again.

“Would you show me?” said Clark. Jon looked back up in confusion. Clark gestured to the sword. “Please?”

After about thirty seconds, Jon stood and crossed to him. Clark lowered his hands and let Jon move his fingers. After he was done, the boy stood clear and nodded.

“You can try again,” Jon said. Clark nodded and swung toward the dummy, hitting the same spot. The jolt from that hit was considerably less.

“Is that better?” Clark asked. Jon nodded, but didn’t offer anything else up. A few soldiers began to sing a tune a short ways away. That distant tune filled the yard.

“You’re a good teacher,” said Clark. “How long have you been fighting with swords?”

Jon shifted his feet. “I've only fought with wooden swords. Actually I’ve never fought. Only trained with Robb and slowly. Ser Rodrik teaches us.”

Clark swung the sword, careful to keep the new grip. “Well, for how old you are, you’re good. If you keep your training up, you’ll be great one day. I saw your natural talent when you were whacking this dummy here.”

Jon swallowed. “Thank you, my lord.”

“I’ve told you, Jon. I’m not a lord. I’m just Tiresias.”

The tune ended prematurely from the soldiers, with a clash and roaring laughter accompanying it.

“Do you come here every night, Jon? To train on your own?”

“Sometimes.”

Clark passed him the wooden sword. “May I ask you a huge favor, Jon?”

Jon looked at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“Would you be willing to teach me how to fight?”

He saw Jon’s eyes go to suspicious right away. “Teach you? Why?”

Clark shrugged. “I don’t know how to fight. You seem like a good teacher. I would like to learn.”

“I told you not to laugh at me.”

Clark knelt before him. “Jon, look at me. I’m not laughing. I’m serious when I say I want to learn from you. I think it would be good for us both.”

“What?”

“My mother taught me another thing besides breathing. She told me that if you want to improve at something, teach it. Force yourself to become better for the sake of your student.”

“But I…I don’t know how! I’m not a knight. I’m not master at arms.”

“That’s perfect for me. You show me what you have learned and I take it step by step. I’m older than you so I’ll be strong enough to take your blows and you’re quicker and know more swordplay than I do. It will balance out.”

Jon looked at him, determined to see if he was just ridiculing him. Clark met his eyes steadily. Finally Jon nodded.

“Thank you, Jon,” said Clark.

Without responding, Jon ran off. At first, Clark thought that was it for the night and stood to leave. He heard rattling in the dark however and saw Jon returning with another practice sword. He handed it to Clark, who gripped it tightly and swung, once Jon was out of range. This sword was longer and better suited for him. Jon guessed his proper sword size correctly just on sight.

After a few more practice swings, Clark saw Jon had retrieved his own practice sword and stood waiting. Clark walked over and saw Jon swallow his nerves before issuing his first instruction.

“Robb and I are still doing basics. We do them every day. So…stand like this.”

He went into his first position, holding his sword out. Clark followed, treating this as seriously as Jon did, the nervousness in his eyes giving way to a determined steeled look. The sound of the soldiers singing and laughing was soon tuned out.

* * *

Clark shut the door on his new room, illuminating his way with the lantern. He used the lantern to light the two candles in his room before blowing it out. He sat down on the bed, letting the silence weigh in on him.

Before in his old life, after work and when he came back to his apartment, his life was full of noises and things to do. He could watch movies, listen to music, call his friends and family, watch porn, many things to stave off the silence. Even when he arrived in Westeros, he was bombarded with the reality of being transplanted into this world. He was busy fending for himself, for food, water and shelter. And there was the whole matter of getting to Winterfell.

Now he was here. For the next year at least, he had room and board. He had a job and he was alone here in this room. He had fewer things that distracted him from the future.

That was why he asked Jon to help him. Perhaps it was a little strange to ask a little boy for help, but he knew what it felt like to feel important at that age. Jon definitely needed a little confidence boost. Plus, they were pretty evenly matched, as far as fairplay with swords went. Clark definitely didn’t have the skills to train effectively with adults. He didn’t care what happened at the inn in the Riverlands.

He had to get stronger. He couldn’t be entirely useless when the wights came crawling south. Standing up, he stripped himself of his boots, shirt, and trousers, leaving only his hose on. When he was about to fall to the floor for some push-ups, he saw something above the door. He walked over and saw a ridge heading the doorway. It wasn’t wide, but still something in Clark’s hand tingled and he found himself preparing to jump.

_One…two…and three!_

Clark leapt and grabbed the ledge. He breathed quickly. He hung loosely, testing it out and waiting for the strain to be unbearable, for his fingers to slip…

However, a couple of seconds passed and his fingers were settled quite…well, he wouldn’t say comfortably, but he was stable. He settled his breath, steadied himself and for the first time since high school, began to do pull ups.

_One…two…three…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys! Great response to the last chapter! Thank you so much for reading and leaving your kudos and comments!
> 
> See you next Monday! Have a great week!


	9. Chapter Nine

It’s an odd thing about routines. Once someone settles into a new one, they can sometimes forget about how they used to live. When Clark was alone or not busy, he would realize with a jolt that he completely forgot what something tasted like, how jeans felt or how his coworker laughed. He tried to recall such things, but most of the time they were gone.

However, the anxiety of forgetting his old world was nothing compared to his apprehension with the silence from the Iron Islands. Six months passed and the realm was seemingly at peace. Ned Stark didn’t speak to him about the manner, but he could sense the man’s growing question. Would the attack actually occur? He knew that small actions could affect large scale incidents. He’d seen enough time travel flicks to learn this. Hell, he was even counting on it to save most of Westeros. But he just went from the Riverlands to the Neck to Winterfell and became a librarian. How the hell was that supposed to have changed Balon Greyjoy’s mind about rebelling?

Perhaps he got the date wrong. But that didn’t seem right. He read up on the current state of the Greyjoy family in his first week at Winterfell. Theon turned eight recently. That seemed about the right age for him to be taken ward. One year seemed like a safe bet. Once he breathed and calmed down, his apprehensions seemed to lessen. He had another half year to go. The first six months passed very quickly though.

Luckily for him, he had plenty to do during that time. He didn’t intend to sleep on his new position from Lord Stark. The first week, he and Maester Luwin met with Lurs, the Winterfell carpenter. After a few days, they’ve finalized a plan, within the budget Lord Stark allotted them, for a new shelf layout. Three quarters of the shelves didn’t need to be replaced, merely moved.

Lurs took his measures and began building with his assistants. Meanwhile, Clark and Maester Luwin moved the existing collection into different storage areas, including Clark’s bedroom. The library stood empty and Clark took advantage of the empty room, ordering a deep cleaning. No books meant no fear of the volumes growing mold from the moisture from the scrubbing. He knew he probably wasn’t too popular for suggesting the big job and so got down on his knees to help scrub. Plus, he got rum for the scullery maids and that reduced his guilt significantly.

By the end of the first month, the new shelving was ready to be moved in. They placed the new ones along the wall and toward the back, leaving the old shelves out in front where they could be more easily replaced.

_Years from on. Hopefully_, Clark thought. He thought back to the fire in the first season. A distraction for the assassination attempt on Bran. If anything, he at least wanted to prevent that bit of arson. Along with the assassination attempt, of course.

The new shelving matched the old and it was very northern. Practical, nothing too ornate with the occasional direwolf carving as an exception. Good material and built to last. After it was done, Clark walked through the empty shelves, not wanting to fill them quite yet. It was a clever layout and kind of beautiful in a way.

When the scrolls and tomes came back in their homes (and his bedroom was finally free), Luwin and he went through them, cataloging each one and placing it in its final resting place. Even with Luwin as organized as he was, there were still misplaced items and texts that he was unaware of. The cataloging took three weeks and yet, when it was all done and the library had all of its contents back, they were a little under half capacity. Luwin and him shared a bottle of wine that night. It may have looked like an understocked library now, but they both saw an opportunity to expand and the library was now able to support that expansion.

So Clark began his current endeavor: writing letters addressed to keeps all over the North, and even to holds in the Eyrie and the Riverlands, asking for information on any books concerning anything Northern. He began to write to the hill tribes, or rather the houses who interacted the most with the hill tribes, for knowledge and assistance on the volumes in the Old Tongue. He didn’t actually compose the letters though. Luwin usually gave him a draft for the day and he copied it, adapting it to each recipient.

Knowing that this task would come, he had begun practicing his quillwork every evening before dinner. He wrote mostly nonsense that was quickly burned and tossed into the fireplace. Besides the fact that he usually stabbed the quill right through the parchment a few times, he also stained his fingers with ink quite a bit. He usually spent a good five minutes scrubbing his hands before sitting down in dining hall. But slowly, by the second week of practice, he became proficient enough that his hands were beginning to be ink-free once again.

However the library was not the only thing on Clark’s new routine. The quiet evenings in his room the first month were filled with his exertions as he stretched and exercised. However, upon realizing he needed a better place and on the advice of Robb and Jon, he found another room on the ground floor in the stables. This place was unused, even by Hullen, the horse master. So with Lurs lending him his tools for the day, Clark constructed a simple gym, complete with primitive weights with a pulley system (just some substantial stones tied with rope), a punching bag (a cloth filled with sawdust) and a smooth ledge for pull-ups. He tried to stay as quiet as possible, but he usually worked out in the evenings when everyone was settling down.

He certainly wasn’t buffing up. He didn’t have the constitution for that, but at the end of a couple of months, he had noticed a change. His skinny frame turned lean and defined, his muscles hardened. He had more energy. He slept better than he had in years. He just felt better. It had been a long time since he felt this physically good.

It helped when it came to sword training too. He still took lessons with Jon a few evenings a week. He even sparred lightly with him. And although he knew that he was missing some subtle instructions and corrections that he would be getting under a real master of arms, he still believed Jon was doing well for his age. Although it was coming to a point where even he had to admit that he had to find another teacher. Jon Snow may grow up to be an excellent swordsman, but he was still just a kid now and Clark was beginning to win bouts, simply based on his age.

Frequently he wandered over to the training yard and watched the guards. It was ordered and seemed deadly enough. The captain of the houseguard at this point was a man named Edmund and he was quietly commanding, a very scary man. Clark watched the men training and besides taking in what he could, he wondered if he could convince one of the men to spar with him. He’d grown friendly with a few of the guards, but he wasn’t sure if they would give him the time of day. Training in martial arts in this place wasn’t like signing up for a course at a dojo. There were apprentices, stewards, squires, preference given to those who had a recognizable name and money. People had their places. Who’d spend their energy on a skinny librarian? Even one with a progressively leaner and meaner physique.

Maybe he could pass it off as a laugh. Get a few guys in the mood to beat up a bookworm for fun and learn what he could as his ass got beat. It was probably a dumb idea. He only knew that he needed some fighting experience before it was too late. His first time fighting a real opponent couldn’t be with a Lannister, a Bolton or a White Walker. Too much was at stake for that.

In the meantime, he’d still continue to spar with Jon, simply for the boy’s sake. Jon was still a mopey kid with his bastard status hanging over him, but he was smiling a bit more. Plus Arya was beginning to follow Jon around more and more. She absolutely adored him, although Clark was thankful that she was put to bed before their sparring sessions. He didn’t think the little girl could keep the secret yet.

He may have been having reservations about approaching the men for lessons in fighting. However in other subjects, he found a teacher in the maester. Early on he asked Luwin about his chains and which one symbolized which learned subject. Black iron for ravenry, silver for medicine and so on. Luwin had a ring of Valyrian steel, which indicated the higher mysteries.

“So do you know magic, then?” asked Clark, one day in the library. They had finished cataloging and were placing the volumes back. Clark being the taller one, reached for the higher shelves.

“I do not, unfortunately,” Luwin said. “Magic is something that has gone out of this world. At least in this part of it. During my apprenticeship, I had focused more on the history based on the accounts of uses of magic, rather than any attempt to change forms, control the elements or dragoncare. I found that to be far more interesting.”

Clark thought of the Night King’s fortress beyond the wall. How many of Craster’s sons has he turned already? He shut the thought down and reached for another volume.

“Was it hard to earn that link?”

Luwin shrugged. “I suppose. It’s a dying knowledge. Only one maester in a hundred have Valyrian steel in their chains. Most of the Citadel looks down on those who study it. Another factor is the texts themselves.”

“What about them?”

“Most of the texts are written in High Valyrian. One needs master the language first before one can even start to study. To satisfy their curiosity about magic…”

“You speak Valyrian?” Clark asked, forgetting the volume in his hand.

Luwin cleared his throat. “High Valyrian. I can read it faster than I can speak it. As you saw, there are a few Valyrian texts here. But it’s been years since I have spoken it with anyone. I’m sure my accent’s atrocious.”

“Could you teach me?” The question came quick and unexpectedly. Luwin raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead considerably. “Please?” he added.

“I have quite a full schedule, Tiresias. I don’t know if I could add Valyrian lessons on top of it.”

“Are the children learning Valyrian, Maester Luwin?”

Maester Luwin peered at him. “No…why?”

“Their lessons will start in here next week. Now that we have the library nice and suitable again. If you or Lord or Lady Stark decide that they should learn Valyrian, I’ll be sitting over here, with my regular duties. I promise I won’t ask questions or distract the children, but please…allow me to sit from a distance and learn.”

Luwin placed the volumes down. The slight suspicion that resided in his eyes during their first meeting was back.

“You, a man from Essos, need help to learn High Valyrian?”

_Shit_.

Clark shrugged, trying to keep the panic from his face. It’d been a while since he had a slip-up like that.

“The Common Tongue was common enough throughout the Nine Cities. It was the only language my parents taught me, besides ours.”

“Yours?”

Clark nodded. “Mein Name ist nicht Tiresias. Wie ich in dieser Welt angekommen hab‘, hab‘ ich keine Ahnung. Eintag wach ich und ich war in Westeros. Ich hab‘ meine alte Habseligkeiten verbrannt und begraben. Und ich bin Clark kein mehr. Nur eine andere Person mit nichts. Aber ich kenne die Zukunft und es ist schrecklich. Ich versuche zu hilfen. Das ist warum, will ich Valyrian lernen.“

He paused, meeting Luwin’s eyes evenly. He had spoken calmly and quickly, knowing that his former German teacher would have rolled his eyes hard at the mistakes. It seemed to have the intended effect though. The maester’s suspicion was replaced with curiosity.

“I’ve never heard that tongue before,” said Luwin finally.

Clark casted his eyes down, reaching for another volume. “I don’t see why you would. It's dying. There aren’t many of my people left.”

“My condolences,” said Maester Luwin softly.

Shelving the volume, Clark shrugged. “It’s the way of the world. Languages die all the time. At least my people aren’t being massacred. I just know it’s over. We’re disappearing quietly. I left when my parents died.”

The maester didn’t say anything for a while. Clark supposed the matter was closed until he heard Luwin speak again.

“So why do you want to learn High Valyrian? Another dying language?”

Clark sighed. “I want to know everything in this library. I was planning on learning the Old Tongue anyway, once we get a tribesman in here. Also, there are old texts of history only in Valyrian. The histories of Westeros sure, but also of Essos, Sothoryos and more. If I’m going around and collecting these texts, I want to be able to verify their authenticity.”

“And the children? Why should they learn High Valyrian?”

“I believe they should able to read the texts as well. Also, there’s more than just the Common Tongue in the world. Not much sea separates the North from Essos. If the Stark children learn Valyrian, it would be a mark in their favor should they decide to trade with those in the Free Cities. They may speak different dialects of bastard Valyrian, but it certainly would be a boon to know the root language of it all.”

Luwin tapped his fingers against the trolley of texts, pursing his lips. Finally he looked to Clark.

“I’ll speak to Lord and Lady Stark about the matter. And if you’re in the same room as me while I’m instructing the children, I suppose I can’t stop you from overhearing. So long as you’re able to keep up with your duties.”

“Thank you, Maester Luwin, thank you.”

He waved it away and handed him a scroll.

“Don’t thank me yet, Tiresias. Wait until their mother and father actually bless me to teach the language of higher mysteries.”

Clark was in the library, beginning his monumental task of inquiry across Westeros when Jon, Robb and Sansa came in for their lessons. For the first week, nothing but letters, arithmetic and history was taught. All in Common Tongue. Clark listened in a little during the history, but it wasn’t anything too in-depth. He learned more from his nightly reading than he did during the lessons.

However at the end of the week, for the final hour, Luwin started to teach Valyrian. The children groaned but Luwin promptly quieted them and began his instruction. Clark hurriedly grabbed a blank parchment and listened closely. Luwin did not look to him once, but Clark was convinced that the maester was speaking a little more loudly than usual. Either way, his voice carried to his table in the back and Clark began to learn High Valyrian.

He kept quiet about it, not wishing to disrupt Luwin's instruction. Although the old maester, at the end of each lesson when the children were gone, walked to his table, his chains clinking. Without saying a word, Clark handed him his paper of exercises. Luwin read it quickly, pointed to a few mistakes and left promptly.

That’s how his days went. He worked in the library, writing and organizing for the expansion. Occasionally during the mornings, he sneaked peeks at the lessons across the room. He studied High Valyrian covertly and also Old Tongue once a serious-minded tribeswoman named Sorcha arrived at Winterfell. After the children’s lessons, she remained in the library with Clark, going over volume after volume of Old Tongue. Over several days, she made a guide to the runes, which Clark copied. He studied a single page for ten minutes every night. Sorcha stayed for two months before leaving, promising to return every six months to test the children.

During the early evening, he had some free time before dinner. He explored the castle and got to know more than just the houseguards. He greeted cooks, maids, stewards, the kennelmaster, whomever he could meet. He walked outside around the grounds and into Wintertown. He didn’t insist on conversation though. People in town and in the castle were hurriedly preparing for winter. Also he still was questioned about his accent whenever he met someone new. Although he did suspect that the Northern burr was slowly coming into his tone.

Dinner was usually a quick affair. He was so thankful he didn’t have to worry about it. More often than not though he ate alone. People may greet him walking around, but he was still an outsider and it was plainly obvious that most Northerners were either suspicious of him or didn’t even think of him.

After he usually went to his private gym. The sudden workout after eating didn’t always sit well with him, but it was the only time that most people were busy. Afterwards, he went to the training yard, deserted by nightfall. He either trained poorly alone or somewhat competently with Jon if he showed.

He bathed regularly too, almost every night after training. The springs he was shown was not the private ones used by the Stark family. These were the ones for the castle staff. He was the most frequent bather by far. He was sure it did wonders for his image of a tough guy, but he didn’t care. He may be in a medieval time, but he wasn’t ready for their hygiene standards. The latrines were bad enough.

Feeling cleansed, he always went back to his room for the night, usually falling asleep right away after a quick stretch. He tried reading a few times but it was a losing fight most nights. His days were full and it made for a tired man at the end of it.

* * *

Of course that wasn’t always the case. One evening, after about four months in Winterfell, Clark was in his room, pacing the floor. He had just completed his final stretches and was waiting for the usual sleepiness to settle in. It was as reliable as clockwork. A full day of literary work, lessons, and training; all punctuated by an unbeatable drowsiness that allowed him to sleep deeply.

However this was not happening tonight. He dropped to the floor and did thirty pushups, something he could not do after a full day when he arrived. He finished quickly, a little breathless and stood. Nothing doing. The only thing that changed was that his arms were now a little sore.

There was something more to this restlessness. It wasn’t going away. He sank into the chair and sat still, gathering his courage. He knew what he wanted. It just wasn’t something he thought he would ever do.

He stood up and crossed to his basin. He splashed some water on his face, trying to freshen himself. He then dressed, pocketing some coins he took from his purse. He hoped it was enough. Having opened the window and determined that it was not that cold out, he left the cloak, blew out the candles and exited the room, locking it.

Five minutes later, he passed through the gates of Winterfell (saying hello to the guards on duty) and was walking into Wintertown. He strode calmly toward his destination, determined not to be embarrassed.

For all his time here, Clark had avoided the brothel in Wintertown. He’d received invitations from guards that he had befriended to join them whenever they went and he’d always declined, citing his miserly ways rather than any moral objection. He truly didn’t have any moral objections. However that still didn’t erase the idea that prostitution was not something he was totally comfortable participating in. Some undertones from a religious upbringing one can ignore and others just sink their teeth in and refuse to let go.

Clark felt this restlessness in Winterfell before tonight and had tried to deal with it himself. However, this world was not as convenient as the last one was for that kind of thing. No lotion, no internet, no disposable tissues. He just didn’t appreciate how easy it was in his world to see a beautiful naked person for free. That wasn’t the case in Winterfell and try as he might, his urgings did not let up on him.

Following the path that a soldier once described to him, he breathed slowly and told himself to calm down.

_It’s just sex. I pay. We fuck. Be polite. It’s just a transaction._

He could hear the brothel as he approached. The drunken and rambunctious nature of the patrons were muffled but prominent on that quiet street. Clark came to the front door, only to jump back when four inebriated Winterfell house guards came bursting out. One of them was clearly the youngest and supported by two others. The remaining man stumbled towards Clark.

“Easy there, Tadd,” said Clark, catching the guard by the shoulders. Tadd regained his balance and his eyes shined with recognition, along with drink.

“Tiresias,” he slurred. “Gods man, are you…you here for cunny?”

“And a drink,” said Clark. He didn’t like Tadd. He was a friendly enough drunk, but there was something predatory about his energy. He knew the maids avoided being alone with him.

“Why didn’t you come with us?” Tadd slapped his hand down on Clark’s shoulder. To Clark’s small delight, he didn’t buckle. “I…I told you…you ought to come with…with…”

“I only broke down tonight,” Clark said, his eyes going to the teenager supported by the other two. “Is he all right?”

“Jory? Yeah, he’s fine. Just…just getting his ears wet. First time and all. Now…now he’s a man! Not too good at standing now…tomorrow! Tomorrow, he’ll be a standing man.”

Clark crossed to the young man. “Jory Cassel? Ser Rodrik’s nephew?”

Jory blinked and nodded once, his head continuing to hang. Clark glanced to the guards holding him.

“You should get him back now. See if you can get him to drink some water.”

The two guards glanced at each other, then back to Clark, who sighed.

“Not an order, just a suggestion. Have a good night, Jory.”

Jory mumbled against his chest. His friends hoisted him once and began carrying him back toward the castle. Tadd walked after them, turning around to call back.

“Next time your cock’s up, let me know. We’ll raze this place to the fucking ground!”

Clark gave him a friendly wave. “No thanks, Tadd. Fucking’s not really a group activity for me.”

Tadd laughed. “Suit yourself. Enjoy, you fucking twat!” With that, he turned and walked after the others.

Clark stood still in the new quiet, peppered with fun sounds from the establishment. His fingers were shaking. He was as nervous as his first time in college. Ultimately he just did what he always did when he was doing something new. He took a deep breath, put on a smile and stepped forward.

Twenty minutes later, he sat on a large bed, clothed only with a robe, running his fingers throughout his damp hair. He had just finished with a quick bath, which was a requirement he was relieved to see, though it was an extra halfgrout on his part.

The room was surprisingly quiet, the surrounding transactions, with their laughter and moans of pleasure, being quite muted. There was a small fire going and Clark gazed into it, trying to control his nerves. The madam, an older stout woman named Ambre with a friendly face and fierce eyes, had asked his preference. He honestly didn’t think about it before. He knew none of the girls here, though he did recognize a couple in the waiting room that he had seen about the town. When Ambre pressed him, he answered as sincerely as he could:

“I’d like a kind woman, someone soft,” he had said. “She doesn’t have to shout or moan in ecstasy if she doesn’t want to. I just…I’d like her to be tender.”

He also asked if she could be at least eighteen. He wasn’t comfortable forgetting that age nor did he want to be. Ambre raised her eyebrows at that, but said she had just the girl for him. After payment, she sent him off to the baths and wished him a pleasant and enjoyable time.

And so Clark sat, waiting for his lady of the evening, trying not to imagine his family’s faces if they knew what he was doing. The fire was enchanting. He scooted closer, peering into the dancing flames. He thought of Stannis, Selyse, Sandor and others who had gazed into fire throughout the series…

_Are you there, Lord of Light?_ _Will you send Melisandre to burn me alive?_ _Does she see me? Do any of your servants see me? Up here in Winterfell…_

One of the logs in the fire cracked, sending sparks up. One fell on his arm. It didn’t smart though…

The door opened. Clark turned to see a young woman with a liquor bottle closing it behind her. She smiled politely.

“Hello. Tiresias?”

Clark got up, nodding to her.

“That’s me.” He stepped forward, his mouth dry. “What should I call you?”

“Renei will do,” she said. She wore a short-sleeved dress, that was tied loosely. The color was a faded green. She was pale and had curly raven hair that hung loose. She wore some mild eyeshadow and blush. Her eyes were a watery blue.

Renei strode over to the table and poured some rum into cups.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” she said. “First time?”

“Aye,” said Clark. After over half a year in this world, saying _Aye _now felt as natural as saying _Yeah_.

“You’re the new librarian at Winterfell?”

Clark was taken a little back. “Aye. Didn’t realize I was fodder for gossip.”

She brought the cups over to the bed in one hand and sat down.

“No more than any other strange newcomer to this place,” she said. “A few of the girls have seen you in town. Not me though. We wondered when you’d come down.”

Clark raised his eyebrows. “When? Not if?”

“You didn’t seem like a prude. I’m surprised you didn’t come here sooner. Offended even. Keeping a handsome face from us.”

She patted the bed next to her. Clark rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help smiling as he sat down.

“I couldn’t afford your services when I first arrived at Winterfell.” He took the cup of rum from her. “I was busy too. Still am. Expanding a library’s a big task.”

“And tonight?”

He shrugged. “Just realized it’s been far too long since I’ve felt a naked woman…or even seen one.”

On that, they clinked their cups and drank silently.

The rum’s burn was a relief and Clark let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding.

“Thank you,” he said, placing the cup down.

“You’re welcome,” she said. She pulled out the bottle. “Another?”

“Are you having another?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have more than one drink with each man. I’d fall down before I could make any decent coin.”

Clark nodded. “I see.”

She reached for his cup. “But you can have as many as you can put down. Before, during, after…as long as you can stumble out when your time’s done.”

She was about to refill his cup when Clark gently stayed her hand. She met his eyes.

“No more for me, thanks.” He put the rum down.

Glancing from the bottle to his face, Renei’s smile turned teasing. “Are you sure? Thought you weren’t a prude.”

Clark shrugged. “Not about that. Just rather be able to perform. And I want…I don’t wanna dull this.”

Renei smiled. “Ambre said you were a sensitive one.”

“Aye, that’s me.” Clark rolled his eyes. “Sensitive.”

She laughed lightly before becoming quiet. She met his eyes and the only sound in the room was the sound of the fire crackling. Clark felt her hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently down on the bed. Renei crawled on top and their mouths met. A minute passed with deep, slow kissing, his hands running up her dress and onto her ass. She wore nothing underneath. Clark felt her hands as well as they opened his robe and ran over his chest, lightly scratching.

She sat up, lightly gasping, pushing him down as he tried to sit up. A few seconds passed before she reached down and in one motion, pulled off her dress. It took all of Clark’s mental fortitude not to come immediately. She sat still on him for a bit, allowing him to take her in.

“Is this good?” she asked.

Clark nodded. “Yes.” He sat up, holding her in his lap. “Yes, it’s good.” He was a little breathless. She smelled really nice. He leaned forward and kissed her neck, hearing her gasp.

As they continued, Clark forgot, for the first time, that he was from another world. The world he was in now was the only one to him. It grew smaller and smaller, until he didn’t even notice the fire burning in the small hearth. There was only Renei. He knew the affection was fake, but for a while, he allowed himself to forget.

* * *

Clark was in the library, scribbling a note to Lord Mazin. The Lord had two volumes of Old Tongue. He had no clue as to the nature of their contents, but he was willing to send them to Winterfell as a donation. Clark marked the expectation of the two volumes, as well as the expected compensation for the delivery upon arrival. He then filed the note for Maester Luwin. The man kept every letter that came into Winterfell.

He was moving on to the next letter from Castle Hornwood, when he heard the door open. Raising his eyes, he saw Maester Luwin enter the library. Clark froze. Something was wrong. Luwin’s demeanor was very serious. 

“Lord Stark wishes to see you immediately,” Luwin said.

Clark stood, placing the quill down. “His solar?”

Luwin shook his head. “The godswood.”

Clark felt his heart begin to race. Was it happening? Could it…

He stopped himself. No use getting exciting until he knew what was going on. He walked to the door, meeting Luwin. The maester was peering at him with a slight suspicion, no doubt wondering why Lord Stork required the godswood to speak with a librarian. Clark pointed to the table.

“I’ll finish this today after I speak to Lord Stark.”

Luwin nodded. “I’m not worried about that. It’s about to become more hectic around here.”

“What’s going on?”

A sigh accompanied Luwin’s answer. “Lord Stark will tell you, I’m sure.”

Clark grimaced. “Right.”

On his way to the godswood, he encountered Catelyn Stark walking from that direction. He stopped, inclining his head with a “My lady”. She nodded, but said nothing as she strode past. Her face was taut with worry. Clark walked on.

Ned Stark was waiting at the entrance of the godswood. He wasn’t alone. He was speaking with Ser Rodrik, who looked worried as well, but determined and full of purpose. Clark hung back a little as they talked, waiting. Finally Ser Rodrik bowed and strode off. It looked like he was heading toward the armory. Clark walked forward. Ned turned toward him, saying nothing as he approached.

Clark stopped and bowed slightly. “Lord Stark.”

Ned opened the gate to the godswood and entered. Hearing the unspoken order, Clark followed. He hadn’t been in here in months. Never feeling like he should ask to enter, he nevertheless felt drawn to the place sometimes. Walking through to the weirwood tree in the center, he felt a certain spark. It almost made him forget how serious everyone was.

Lord Stark stopped in front of the weirwood tree and turned to face him. Clark halted as well. Ned reached into his pocket and pulled out a note. He handed it to Clark.

“This arrived from Casterly Rock,” said Ned. “Copies were sent to every Warden in the Seven Kingdoms. Lannisport was attacked two days ago. An armada with kraken banners destroyed the entire Lannister fleet.”

Silence reigned in the godswood. Clark felt his spirits lift and fall all at once. His story was proven and people died for it.

“How bad were the casualities?”

Ned sighed. “Not as bad as they could have been. Casterly Rock hosts a large garrison and they started mobilizing as soon as they saw the fires. By the time they arrived, the Ironborn were sailing away. They didn’t come ashore. They want to keep this battle on the sea.”

Clark opened the note and scanned it. He noted the neat scribble of Casterly Rock’s maester and the elegant signature that didn’t match the writing above. His fingers traced the signature of Tywin Lannister. His first sign of the old lion in this world. He wondered if they would ever meet.

He shook himself. He had bigger things to worry about. Judging by the look on the Warden’s face, he did too. Clark handed the note back.

“It’s just as you said,” Ned said. “The fleet burning. You saw this.”

“Heard about it actually,” Clark said, before he stopped himself. “Apologies.”

“It came true though.” Ned Stark walked to the tree, holding out a hand to support himself. Clark took a probing step forward.

“Lord Stark...”

“The other things you saw…they’re going to happen, are they?” Ned’s voice was calm, but Clark could hear the weight of it.

“I believe so,” Clark said softly. “I’m sorry. I wish that wasn’t the case, believe me. I wish this Greyjoy rebellion was the hardest conflict you’ll faced in your lifetime, but that won’t be true.”

“The White Walkers are coming then…with an army of dead men.”

Clark looked at his feet. “Chances are they haven’t amassed their army yet, but…they might be starting.”

He rather hoped that the Three Eyed Raven was blocking their conversation from the Night King. He was counting on the Night King not to notice his presence in Westeros and adjust his apocalyptic schedule accordingly. It was one complication he didn’t need.

Ned Stark looked at him. “I wasted months when I could have been preparing for them.”

“Lord Stark,” Clark said. “There’s nothing more you can do right now. Don’t concern yourself with the White Walkers or whatever’s beyond the Wall. You have to deal with the Greyjoys. After you’re done and you’re back home, we can focus on preparing the North for what’s coming. And if it makes you feel better, there are things you can do in the upcoming war that will help us all significantly in the future.”

Lord Stark walked over to him. He seemed to have collected himself and he fixed Clark with his grey eyes, full of determination.

“What needs to happen?” The Warden’s voice was low. Clark knew that no one who heard it would ever mistake it for weakness.

“Balon Greyjoy, his oldest sons and his brother Euron…I believe they should all be killed. No amnesty. Some died in the future I saw. Some didn’t. The ones that didn’t were huge pains in the ass and they cost your family and your allies dear.”

Ned looked at him expectantly. Clark sighed.

“You’re more of a military man than I am, Lord Stark. I don’t know strategy and I don’t want to give you any information that’s incomplete. I trust you to act smartly with this. Just don’t throw everything out the window to kill the men I told you to. Opportunities will present themselves and it doesn’t take much for a man to die.”

The grey eyes didn’t leave him. Ned simply breathed, resigning himself to the next question. One that Clark did not expect.

“Do I die, Tiresias?”

Clark blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The evening in my solar, our first conversation, you mentioned that in your visions, the White Walkers were the concerns of my children…and not me. So…do I die?”

A hesitating silence followed this.

“Lord Stark,” said Clark, his voice steady. “I can’t tell you something like that. I can promise that I will do everything I can to stop the atrocities from falling on your family. But I can’t tell you everything. Only what will help.

“I said it the night I met you and I’ll say it again; White Walkers are not the only threat to the North. You’ll have to deal with men as well. So for now, focus on the Ironborn, focus on your men, try to kill the Greyjoys and don’t get yourself killed doing so.”

Ned’s stare burrowed into him and he held it as best he could. Finally Ned breathed and he did too.

“When we leave this godswood, we should not meet again until after I return. I’ll have no business meeting with a librarian while I’m calling my banners and preparing my men. A raven will arrive from King’s Landing soon. King Robert will want to order all armies to meet on the western coast and we need to be prepared.”

“I understand.”

“When I return, you and I will speak on the threats beyond the wall…and those in the Seven Kingdoms as well. And I’ll look to extend your stay. It seems that the library will take more than one year to complete. And even when it’s done, who better to keep it organized?”

Clark realized his mouth was open and closed it. Ned Stark stuck out his hand and he shook it.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Tiresias.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark, thank you.”

Ned nodded and began to walk away. Clark then remembered something.

“Lord Stark?”

Ned turned. “Yes?”

“Balon Greyjoy’s youngest son, Theon and his daughter, Yara…they should live. I would offer to take Theon as a ward. When it’s all over.”

“All right.” Clark blinked. Just a quick affirmation. No question from the Lord of Winterfell.

Well, maybe just one. Ned Stark was looking at him as though he wasn’t seeing him properly before.

“Do you have any furs, Tiresias?”

Clark shook his head. “No, my Lord.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

He eyed the godswood around him, all wet from the rain the other day. Plus, he could see his breath. But it didn’t feel cold. Just pleasantly cool…

“No, my Lord.”

Ned looked a little bewildered, then shook his head.

“Maybe you really do belong up here. But you should get furs before the snows come. Winter’s not kind to anyone, even to the ones born in this land.”

Clark nodded. “Yes, Lord Stark. Your house words.”

Ned almost smiled. “Indeed.” Then he turned, walking away to prepare for the Greyjoy rebellion. Clark followed, trying to figure out his next step. He honestly didn’t know what to do next. Warning Ned of the Greyjoy rebellion was a gamble that paid off.

However all he felt was a faint dread in the back of his mind. He knew his work had only just begun. Things were only going to get more complicated from here on in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Greyjoy rebellion is on! Thank you so much for your kudos and comments.
> 
> I'll try and keep writing as well and as promptly as I can. However I am coming near the end of prewritten chapters (as of now, five) to further edit and such. There may come a Monday in the future when I will not be able to update. I'll give you a warning beforehand.
> 
> This does not mean that I don't intend to finish the story. I have an outline. I love writing this and it's super fun, however I also enjoy writing several chapters at once, which allows me to write the whole story more coherently. I wrote quite a bit before publishing. So if I need to take a couple months off and write 50k words or such, I ask for your understanding.
> 
> Also the fact is that I started a super physical job which is very tiring and I'm trying to navigate a career change as well. I'll try not to let these become big excuses for delays, but they're there and are factors in my life right now.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'll see you next Monday!


	10. Chapter Ten

Ned Stark and his bannermen have been gone for two months. It was quite a scene when they arrived at Winterfell. He was able to see younger versions of more characters; the Greatjon, Lord Karstark (though without the two sons he was so desperate to avenge) and to his utter excitement, Ser Jorah Mormont. At least he thought it was Ser at this point. He didn’t have the courage to approach him. Not because of shyness, but because he was worried about the impact he would have on the events of the Greyjoy rebellion. Telling Ned he would have to be more brutal was risky enough. So for the vast majority of their stay, he stayed out of sight and out of mind.

It was a struggle with some though. His stomach lurched when he was in Wintertown one afternoon to see pink banners with flayed men riding through. Returning to the castle, he saw Ned Stark in the yard, shaking Roose Bolton’s hand. His eyes scoured the rest of the Bolton company, seeking Ramsay. He realized how ridiculous that was. Ramsay was only a boy now, probably the same age as Robb or Jon. Still he hated to think what the boy was doing now to satisfy an emerging bloodlust. Probably dissecting small animals while they were alive.

He strode quickly from the yard. He looked very conspicuous standing stunned in the open and if he needed to move against the Boltons in the future, it would benefit him greatly if they didn’t know his face. Not that he wasn’t tempted to stab Roose in the heart now. However he knew that was not the correct move. Roose, for all his ambition and future treachery, was a skilled lieutenant for Lord Stark. He needed him on the battlefield and Roose would be loyal for now. It wouldn’t benefit him to move against the Starks at this time. So he avoided the large crowds. He skipped the feasts and went to the kitchens for food. He stayed in his room, bringing his work with him.

Thankfully the bannermen were only there for two nights and departed early in the morning. Clark walked to the top of the battlements and watched them disappear down the Kingsroad. He hoped this would be a short rebellion with little blood lost on their side. It was in the lore at least. As to what was happening now, the news was sparse. The Ironborn continued to raid the coast, going as far north as Sea Dragon Point. However the tide was turning against them, beginning with a failed attack on Seagard. There, fate seemed to play out as expected. Balon’s first son, Rodrik, was killed.

Life in Winterfell passed quietly enough. Ser Rodrik was left as castellan with Luwin as advisor. Catelyn took on more leadership and did not allow the castle to falter under the siege of winter. However Luwin confided in Clark, that this winter was not looking to be a long one at all and perhaps not even last the full year. It seemed that the long summer would began shortly.

One morning, as during most, Clark woke, dressed, and then went to get breakfast. Sometimes he ate in the hall. But mostly he preferred eating with the staff and guards. He entered the kitchen, grabbed a bowl of porridge, two sausages and an ale. He went outside and found his usual stone seat. He sat and began to eat. He was halfway through his meal when he saw a serving girl, Mal, cross the yard to the kitchen. He nodded towards her.

“Morning, Mal,” he said, going back to his porridge. He swallowed a bite before he realized she had stopped right in front of him. He raised his eyes to her. She looked incredulous.

“Mal, what’s wrong?” he said, feeling a little bewildered.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked.

Clark looked down at his plate then back to her. “Having breakfast,” he offered blankly.

She blinked. “You can’t be out here like this.”

_Okay…_

“Like what?”

She blinked again. “It’s freezing!”

Clark took another look at Mal and saw that she was heavily bundled. His eyes traveled to the other few people standing outside. The only ones who looked at ease were the blacksmiths, forever heated by their forges. The house guards looked stoic but still miserable. They wore a thick layer of wool under their armor. Probably more than one. Everyone else was wearing hats, thick scarves and coats. Apparently it was an extremely cold morning.

Clark looked at himself. He wore his usual trousers, boots and only a cream white shirt on top with the sleeves rolled up.

And he felt…absolutely fine.

He looked back to Mal, who was looking at him like he was crazy.

“I…” His mind was blank. He really didn’t think he’d have to bullshit today. He finally shrugged. “I just wanted some fresh air. Haven’t been out here long.”

Mal gestured sharply. “Get inside in, now!” she hissed.

With no desire for an argument, Clark got up and followed. Mal shut the door behind him and led him over to an open fire. Once they stood, taking it in, she turned to him, her face strained with angry bewilderment.

“Is this your first winter in the North? You can’t be out in that weather with just a shirt!”

Clark looked around and saw that her berating had an audience. Thankfully while a few looked suspicious, the rest seemed either amused by the much smaller Mal yelling him down or exasperated with his stupidity. After all, a true Northerner knew how to dress properly for the cold. He looked like a foreign idiot.

However, his perceived idiocy was quickly upstaged. Otis, a young house guard came in the kitchens. He actually ran in.

“Everyone! Everyone! News from the rebellion. Good news!”

Everyone turned to the young man, including Mal. Clark used the opportunity to move toward the exit, keeping his ears open as he did.

“The King’s brother, Lord Stannis Baratheon, led the combined royal and Redwyne fleet and cornered the Iron Fleet in the Straits of Fair Isle. They sank the entire fleet and captured Aeron Greyjoy! He’s now a prisoner under Casterly Rock.”

Cheers erupted in the kitchen. Otis, done with the announcement, grabbed a serving girl and spun her around. Clark took advantage of the celebration and left.

He walked quickly, not daring to look back. That was good news. Not that he was expecting any different. Even with a few influences, the Seven Kingdoms had far too much manpower and wealth behind them to lose to the Iron Islands. Balon Greyjoy forgot that. Or arrogantly ignored it. The Siege of the Iron Islands was next. Clark hoped that Lord Stark would influence King Robert to execute Balon once he surrendered. It’s easy to take a warning from someone when they’re face to face. He was now far away from Lord Stark and Ned’s honor might just cripple them again.

In any case, he wasn’t in any position to influence the rebellion. Right now he had a bigger mystery to parse. As he passed the windows on the way to his room, he saw the beginnings of a snowfall. That sealed it for him. He wasn’t sure what exactly happened this morning, but tonight he would see for himself just what was happening.

At the hour of the wolf, Clark went to the training yard. The snow was light but continuing to fall silently. He lit a brazier, just in case he was a complete idiot and needed to warm up very quick. Removing his cloak, he took a deep breath and stepped out of the heat into the uncovered yard.

He walked slowly across the yard and back. He wore no additional layers. Just the cream white shirt. He rolled his sleeves up like he had them this morning. He sat down in the middle of the yard. Under the falling snow and waited. He waited for the moment that always came, when the snow turned from fun and beautiful to cold and miserable. To shivering and discomfort. To numbness and pain that felt like sharp knives piercing the lungs...

At least twenty minutes went by. He didn’t feel any discomfort. He picked up some snow and held it. In his bare hands…and the cold didn’t bite. It remained cool but it didn’t hurt.

Walking back to the brazier, Clark tried not to get too excited.

_Okay, Clark. Think now. Is this one of the abilities that that note told me about? Or this all just delirium from hypothermia and I can’t feel the cold?_

He flexed his digits and they all responded normally. He took his knife out and threw it against the wall. It stuck there, a little far from where he was aiming, but he still had good motor control. He whispered the entire opening cheer from _Bring It On_ without his teeth chattering and he hadn’t forgotten a word. So he wasn’t delirious at least. Everything about him physically and mentally seemed…unaffected by the cold.

Clark stared out at the falling snow. Seized by the desire for one last test, he took off his shirt and his boots, leaving him barefoot. He placed one foot into the snow…then another…and another. He walked slowly, feeling the snow crunch up between his toes. Finally he laid down, facing the falling snow as it began to blanket him.

It was cool certainly, but as comfortable as soft grass. Stretching out on the ground, he looked up to the sky and laughed softly. Out of relief he supposed.

The Night King could bring the winter storms if he wished. The coldest winter he can possibly manage. Clark grinned, allowing himself one moment of hubris.

_But when you do, old man…you’re gonna have one hell of a time getting me to shiver._

By the time, Clark had found his way back to bed, his hubris had disappeared, giving way to his usual anxiety.

_Then again, it’s possible that the cold he brings will be too much. Even with this immunity I’ve been given._

He resolved to purchase furs for appearances and not advertise his tolerance to anyone. Which was not hard for him. He was grateful enough for the cheat. He didn’t need any attention for it.

* * *

“What’s wrong with your cock?”

“What?” Clark said, turning to Renei. She was propped up on her elbows, looking at his groin.

“Your cock,” she said, grabbing it gently. “The head’s out, even when you’re soft now. What happened?”

Clark looked down and plopped his head back on the pillow.

“I was circumcised.”

“What?”

“The foreskin around the head of my cock. It was removed.”

“Why?”

Clark shrugged. “It was a religious ritual for some where I came from. Others just thought it looked pretty and clean. What do you think?”

She frowned, moving it back and forth. “Looks strange.”

“Strange?”

“Never seen one that looks like that.” She dropped it, looking at him. “How old were you?”

He sighed. “When I was born. A week or so after.” He rubbed his eyes. Drowsiness was settling in. ”Did you not notice it until tonight?”

“Only the second time you came around and I got a good look.” She crawled onto him and he wrapped his arm around her. “Saw you all relaxed. Didn’t want to bring it up unless…I don’t know.”

She fell into a quiet, resting her head on his shoulder. They both looked at the fire going, no hurry to leave. He had paid for the extra time.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Essos,” he muttered. Sensing her follow up question, he continued. “We were nomads. Spent most of the time in between the Free Cities, the bays up north.”

He stroked her back lightly.

“What about you?” he asked. “Where are you from?”

She stiffened in his arms.

“I don’t know Westerosi accents that well, but the northern one is getting pretty familiar. You’re not from around here, are you?”

Renei removed his arm and got up from the bed. She moved calmly enough, but the tone was warning.

“Would you whore where people knew you?” she asked, not facing him.

Clark shook his head. “No. Can’t say I would.”

She took a cloth, wetted it and began wiping herself down.

“There was no good work near my family. Whatever I could do paid shit.” She sat down on the bed. “Whoring pays better than anything a young girl can do otherwise. At least for a common girl with a fat arse.”

Clark got up and took a damp cloth for himself, wiping his face.

“So why the North? Wintertown’s not a big place. Probably find more customers down South or in Braavos.”

She picked up her dress off the floor. “It’s too hot in the south.”

“You’re right there,” Clark said, nodding.

Renei pulled the dress over her head and down. “Also heard that the North was a honorable place. Figured I could keep most of my wages here. Not be cheated.” She shrugged. “Course, that’s most definitely horseshit, but Ambre treats me all right.” She came up to him and grabbed his cock. “Who knows? Maybe I just like hairy men. Plenty of them up here.”

Clark snorted. “That must be it. Does it disappoint you that I shave?” He extracted her hand and began to dress.

“A little. Doesn’t really match the rest of you. Hairy chest, hairy arms, hairy legs, hairy arse.” She smirked. “Clean face.”

“Aye. Fair enough.”

She poured water into two cups at the table. “So, next month, then?”

He pulled on his trousers. “Guess so. Unless I fall in love and become chaste.”

“Oh? You have someone special in mind?”

Clark shook his head. “Just the library.”

“You should come in more often.”

“Once a month is all I can afford. I’m a librarian, not a knight after a tourney.”

“I know the Starks pay their staff better than that. The house guards are here every week. The ones that are left anyway. They drink more than you.” She handed him a cup of water.

“That’s the house guard.” He drank deeply, before sitting down to pull on his boots.

Renei sat back on the bed. He could feel her eyes running over him.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d call you a house guard. You sure you’re just a librarian?”

He stood, kicking his boots in. “Why’d you ask?”

She shrugged. “Never seen a man of letters with a body like yours.”

Clark reached into his pockets, pulling out a silver stag. “Hairy men of letters can exercise just as well.” He handed her the stag. “You know, I’d given you that even without the flattery, right?”

She placed the stag in her purse. She always hid it after her customers left. “Flattery comes free, handsome.”

He snorted, pulling the tunic over his head and fastening his fur-lined cloak. A recent purchase and a steep one. All for the sake of appearances.

“Good to know,” he said. “See you.”

“Tiresias…” she called. He stopped at the door and turned. “If you come again in two weeks, and not wait a whole month…I’ll tell you where I’m from.”

He crossed his arms. “The rebellion’s almost crushed. The men will be home soon. Sure you can’t hold out?”

She shrugged. “I send money back home to my family. Could always use a little extra. It’s been a little thin these days.”

She sat down next to the fireplace, adding a small log to the flame.

“Where you from?” Clark asked.

She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness to it. “Gulltown. There’s a cottage. My mother lives there with my sister and brother.”

“When's the last time you saw them?”

She looked at him, her hint of sadness buried. “Any more personal jabber’s gonna cost you a lot more. Most of it’s not for sale.”

“Fair enough.”

Stretching her arms high, she yawned. “So, two weeks from now?”

Clark yawned too, spurned by hers. “I guess so. What will the castle think of me? You’re turning me into a degenerate.”

Renei smirked. “Would you rather be a septon?”

He shook his head. “No,” he answered honestly. “Night, Renei.”

“Good night, handsome.”

The walk back to the castle was quiet, the streets dulled by falling snow. Clark waited until he was out of sight of the brothel and unclasped his cloak. The winter night air crept over him. He breathed it in. It was reinvigorating.

An image of Mr. Freeze from the Batman cartoon flashed through his head and he chuckled. Thoughts of pop culture have grown farer and farer in between and there were days that he didn’t think on the sounds and sights of his old world. However that was one image that did not let up.

He tried to not let it to go his head, this new ability, this immunity to the cold. It wasn’t as though as he had a home field advantage now. In fact, this immunity worried him a little. It was certainly a gift in the fight and survival against the Night King, but the indifference to the cold temperatures could lead to a lapse in judgment on his part. He couldn’t be unaware of how much the cold will hurt ordinary people.

This little routine of power fantasy rush, slight chastisement and rueful thinking on the future accompanied Clark on the rest of his walk back to Winterfell (he put his cloak back on before coming into sight of the gate). Once back in his room, he sat down at his desk, lighting a candle and pulled a new piece of parchment toward him.

He had a little hobby now between exercise and bed. As much as he had let go of his old world, there was a part that still called back to him. A part that he did not wish to forget. A few nights a week, he sat down and wrote, to the best of his ability, the lyrics to songs that he remembered. The numbers of songs were severely limited. Nothing with too modern of a beat. No references to anything modern really. He sang in a choir in college so he wrote down all the Latin and Gaelic songs he could remember. The drinking songs. Some Pogues. He changed the lyrics to a few.

By this point, the desk drawer below him was dedicated solely to his recollections. He had no idea how he was to explain that to anyone who’d come snooping, besides being an eclectic singer.

_The look on Ser Rodrik’s face should he ever think that Winterfell is housing a singer_…

Clark chuckled as he wrote. He didn’t know why he couldn’t let it go. The bouts of melancholy were few at this point. He thought of his family less and less. The distractions of his work, his monthly whoring and the oncoming shitstorm about to hit Westeros were more than enough to deal with. He was actually frightened by how easy it was to let go of the world he once knew. Sometimes he even found himself referring to himself in his head as Tiresias, not Clark.

For some reason, however, the music was different and as the memories of his world weakened, he found songs easily enough. He continued to write into the night.

* * *

Two weeks later, Clark was in his hideaway gym, hanging full extended from the rafter.

_Just one more…come on, you filthy motherfucker, just one more…_

He inhaled and brought himself up to the rafter, holding himself there for a few seconds before ending the workout as he usually did, pulling himself further so he could sit on top. He sat on the rafter, trying to catch his breath. Finally when he could finally comfortably breathe with his mouth closed, he jumped down, landing lightly on the floor. After the final stretch, he drank heavily, pulling from his waterskin.

The climb onto the rafters was not just assisted by his increased strength. The tingling in his fingers the first night doing pull-ups returned frequently and it manifested into bouldering and climbing capabilities that were definitely not present beforehand.

He had rock climbed before, but this was new. Several months passed since that first night. His fingers were fishhooks. His body didn’t weigh heavily on him as he ascended. He sometimes went on the outside of the castle walls, where patrols were sparse and bouldered for a solid hour on the cold stone. Not all at once, but still. He founded edges and rough patches that would have alluded him previously, but now served him well. He climbed high, either landing in the soft snow or, later on when he was feeling more courageous, onto the battlements on top.

It was very exciting and it more than made up for the callouses that had formed on his hands formed for the last few months.

Clark exited the stables. He was just about to head to the springs, when he hear a cheer erupt from the forge. Trying to figure out what was going on, he turned around, only to hear another cheer erupt from the kitchens behind him. Slowly the whole castle seemed to cheer, as whatever merry news spread like wildfire. He wiped his face with his furs and went to the kitchens.

The blast of noise and warmth hit him hard. Celebrations were loud from the cooks, the maids and all who were in the middle of a late dinner. Wine and ale were being poured liberally, but carefully as it was still winter. There were hugs all around and smiles. Clark had never seen the Northerners this openly happy.

He turned to his left and saw Mal, hugging her friend Ginn and cheering. He approached her.

“Mal? Ginn?” he called over the noise. “What’s going on?”

“You don’t know?” Mal called back, smiling.

Clark shook his head.

“The rebellion’s over! We won!” she said.

“What’d you mean? What happened?” Clark said, stopping himself from asking outright the fates of the Greyjoys.

“I don’t know,” Mal said. She pointed to Saul, an older houseguard, who was currently drinking heavily with the cooks. “He just came in and told us it’s all over.”

_God, don’t I wish._

“Thank you, Mal” he said, before walking over to Saul. His interactions with Saul were brief. The man was rather taciturn. However, this evening the man’s face was open and red with drink already. As Clark stopped in front of him, the man’s eyes locked onto him.

“Tiresias! Have a drink! It’s a good day. A good night!” he said, handing Saul a full ale.

“Thank you, Saul.” Clark drank his ale. He saw Saul about to chide him for taking a small sip and spoke first.

“I wasn’t here when you came in.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t here when you came in,” Clark repeated louder. “I heard we won, but what happened?”

“There was a siege,” said Saul. He let go of a cook and sat down. Clark joined him. “Lord Stark and the King had Pyke. The squids were all outnumbered, ten to one! On the final assault, there was a breach in the walls. Thoros of Myr, a foreign prick like yourself, led the charge.”

He burped loudly, to the disgust of some onlookers and the applause of others. Saul perked up, realizing he had an audience.

“Not to be left behind, the North had its own warrior follow closely; Ser Jorah Mormont charged with the mad priest and they opened the way for our Lord Stark and his troops. The second son of Balon, Maron Greyjoy, was killed in the siege before Northern steel could touch him. A falling tower crushed him.”

A small cheer went all the room. Clark looked around and saw no pity for a young man killed by his father’s prideful rebellion. Saul went on.

“Lord Stark and his troops fought their way, putting down every last fighting squid they could find. The King joined them with a few of his Kingsguard and they made their way to the throne room, when King Squid himself sat, Balon Greyjoy.”

Hisses went around the kitchen. Saul ate it up.

“He surrendered, tossing his crown to the floor and pled for amnesty. The King strode forward and demanded the remaining Greyjoy children to be brought forth. Theon and Yara were accounted for and then taken into custody. King Robert told Balon that his children will live, but a rebelling lord could not be allowed to breathe. He was brought to the center of the throne room. They didn’t allow him to cross the bridges to the courtyard so that he may jump of his own volition.

“Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, strode forward and asked to be the King’s Justice that day and take Balon’s head. He had won glory in battle, but the rebellion had started in Lannisport, his father’s lands. Also, why should a normal man kill a King, when there’s a perfectly fine Kingslayer in the room!”

Laughter erupted from the crowd, with a few groans interspersed. Clark just sat listening.

“Balon Greyjoy was asked for his last words. He simply said, ‘The land may stand tall now, but the sea is forever. What is dead may never die.’ Or something like that.”

More hisses from the peanut gallery.

“The Kingslayer took his head, with a sword still bloody from the warriors of Pyke.” He stood up, raising his cup. “To the Greyjoys and their Ironborn, the fools who thought to fight the wolves in winter! Long may they swim!”

Cheers rang in the kitchen. His story done, Saul drained his cup and made to reconnect with the cook he was ogling. Clark walked to him, grabbing his arm.

“What’s this, then?” asked Saul, looking annoyed.

“Saul, what about Euron Greyjoy?”

“Euron Greyjoy?”

“Yes, Euron Greyjoy, Balon’s brother. Is he alive? Dead? Missing?”

Saul furrowed his eyebrows, thinking.

“Don’t know,” he said. “Letter didn’t say nothing about him.”

Fear must have shown on Clark’s face. Saul clasped him on the shoulder.

“No worries, skinny man! Lots of things happened that day. Can’t all fit into one letter. If King Robert or Jaime Lannister didn’t spare Balon’s life, they sure as shit won’t spare the life of the fucker who burned Lannisport.”

“So they might have gotten him?”

Saul shrugged. “Probably. Not many ships he could have escaped on anyhow. Lord Stannis sank most of them.” He laughed, shaking Clark’s shoulder. He grabbed a full cup of ale from the table and pressed it into Clark’s hand. “Drink, tonight, man. Drink! If you’re with Winterfell and all the people here, drink with us!”

Clark forced a smile. “All right, Saul.” He drained his cup and accepted another right away. However when he was out of sight, he placed the ale down and made a quiet exit. Later that night in the bath, Clark sat in the steaming water, pondering Euron’s possible survival.

_With the right warning, we could probably work around him. As long as we can take him out on land though. That fleet of his was a son of a bitch._

He sighed and sank below the water.

_Hopefully Lord Stark hunted him down after, if he wasn’t killed during the battle. Maybe he could gift him to Roose Bolton._

Coming back up, he stepped out and began drying himself.

_Don’t even joke about that, Clark. You have actual sadists to deal with here. Letting some swashbuckling, raping motherfucker suffer is just you indulging yourself. It won’t save lives, it’ll just distract you._

As he sank into bed that night, Clark heard the continued celebrations around him. He allowed himself a small fist pump for Balon’s death. When Theon comes to Winterfell, hopefully there’ll be a lot less pressure from his dead daddy to betray the Starks. Then again, that was the issue. His betrayal was a vital step in his journey to the man defending Bran in the godswood against the Night King and his minions. He would have to get Theon from cocky insecure boy to steadfast loyal man without the torture from Ramsay.

He scratched his chest, thinking. It would be a delicate dance. The moves he was making probably guaranteed that most of the characters personalities would develop differently than in the show. And while he preferred them alive, he also needed them strong for what was coming.

A giggling shriek erupted in the hallway and was silently silenced by a muffled moan. Clark turned over. Just take it step by step. He had time. Ned Stark would be back soon and they would work to prepare the North. In the meantime, he did not envy all those drinking heavily tonight. Breakfast tomorrow was going to be accompanied by a record amount of hangovers.

* * *

It took the Stark army six weeks to arrive back at Winterfell. Edmure Tully arrived with a small contingent of soldiers along Ned Stark, in order to visit Catelyn. Most of the households north and east of Winterfell stopped as well for a small feast of celebration. Unfortunately for Clark, this also included the Boltons. So he isolated himself once again in his room, going only to the kitchen and latrine. However due to a stroke of luck, Roose Bolton left the following day with his troops, reasoning that the demands of winter meant he could not stay longer than necessary. Even for a short winter like this one.

In the morning, Clark took the pleasure of watching his banners march away from the battlements. During the rebellion, he had wondered about Domeric Bolton. He wasn’t sure if the show mentioned him or whether they just cut him out completely. In the library, he had found a book of lineages for the great houses of the North. Turning to the Bolton pages, he ran his fingers down the lineage, all the way to Roose Bolton. There were no children listed.

_So…Ramsay is the only son. Soon he’ll become a terror around the Dreadfort…_

The notion of only facing Ramsay and Roose did not comfort him greatly as he watched the flayed man disappear over the hills. He had no idea where to find Ramsay. Roose Bolton was in the Dreadfort. And if the show was any indication, the Bolton soldiers were ones who took great pleasure in raping and torturing their enemies. If he killed Roose, how would his men react? Was he keeping them in line?

Then again, the Stark soldiers raped and killed too. The three hanging women who had serviced House Lannister came to his mind. He turned to the courtyard to see it full of soldiers. Were the three who mocked Brienne here now? Their faces were not clear in his mind.

He took one last look at the departing Boltons and stepped down from the battlements. There was time to deal with Roose and Ramsay and any other mischievous sadists that their castle had to offer. Besides, their departure meant that he could walk and see the other lords in the North. Lord Umber, Karstark, Glover and Ser Jorah all elected to stay one more night.

That meant another rowdy gathering in the Great Hall. The fact they were back on rations didn’t dim the Northmen’s enthusiasm. They still poured the ale and wine freely. Less food only meant that they got drunk quicker. Clark sat in the corner with Jon Snow, Hullen the horsemaster and Barth the brewer. A prime seat to bear witness to sodden soldiers. Glancing to the front table, Clark saw Catelyn Stark’s mouth grow thinner and thinner. This feast was wearing at her patience.

It wasn’t all the men’s fault though. True to the events of the story, Ned Stark had brought a young Theon Greyjoy back to Winterfell. The second time Ned went off to war and brought back someone else’s son. Although at least, Theon was openly of noble birth.

Clark watched Theon at a distance in the yard today. Robb and he were shooting arrows. Though he still had some cocky defiance to him, the pain of losing most of one’s family and becoming a hostage was still fresh. Theon carried a bit of melancholy with him, the same that hung over him when he spoke to Luwin for the last time. Aeron Greyjoy, Theon’s youngest uncle, now sat as Lord of the Iron Islands and Yara was allowed to return home. He would decide what to do about Theon later. If the boy even allowed him to approach. One sure thing though; he would not, under any circumstances, tell the boy how lucky he was to be the Stark’s prisoner or that he was the one who encouraged his father's execution...

Theon was sitting next to Robb, who was conversing enthusiastically with him. He was actually receptive to Robb and Clark could see the beginnings of their strong friendship. Clark wasn’t the only one to notice though. He turned to his right and saw Jon looking toward the front table as well, before going back to his steak and ale pie.

And by going back, he actually was just pushing it around with his fork.

Clark leaned over to him. “What’s wrong, Jon?”

Jon kept his eyes down. “Nothing.”

Barth caught his eye and shrugged. Taking a drink of ale, Clark decided to go for it.

“Your brother’s not going to forget you.”

The secret little dragon stabbed his pie. “He already has.”

“Theon is almost as young as you and he has been taken from his home. Most of his family has been killed, including all of his brothers. It’s a hard situation and Robb is doing a good thing, befriending him. Theon needs a friend.”

Jon breathed in and held it. Clark had seen him doing the exercise a few times already and he was glad to have helped the boy. He was only sorry Jon was in a situation where he needed it. Jon breathed out, staring ahead. Clark waited for him.

“They found room for Theon,” he said quietly. Clark had to strain to hear him. “Up there. There’s no place for me during the feasts. I’m smaller than Theon. And they couldn’t find room.”

Clark glanced at Hullen and Barth, who were graciously pretending to be very deaf. He leaned in so they really wouldn’t hear.

“The people who love you will always have room for you,” he muttered. “Your father, Robb, Arya…Bran and Sansa when they both grow up a little.” Jon gave a small laugh against his will. Clark gestured to the hall.

“This thing, Jon, is horseshit.” Jon looked a little taken back at the swearing but kept listening. “We have to follow rules here. But your family, your real family, will always have room for you. Love isn’t something that is limited to only a few people at a time. It grows as you do. You can always love more people. Robb loves his father, his mother, his sisters and his brothers. If Theon becomes his friend, he may love him too. But he’ll always be your brother. He’ll always have a place for you.”

Jon swallowed and breathed. His chest heaved a little as he stared forward. Clark looked around and whispered:

“It just won’t be at a crowded feast under the eyes of a cranky stepmother.”

Jon started laughing, in relief more than anything. The tension broken, Clark drained his cup.

“Anyway, I was serious. This hall is far too crowded for me. Wanna come to the training yard and spar?”

Barth and Hullen heard that and looked surprised. Jon and Clark have been quiet about it after all, but Clark still expected some rumors to get out.

Jon looked skeptical. “I don’t know. The soldiers are all there. Ser Rodrik says we’re supposed to stay out of their way.”

“The soldiers are all here and drunk. Come on, Jon. It’ll be fun. Cheer you up.”

After a minute and a few hurried bites of pie, Jon agreed. They exited the Great Hall and made their way down to the training yard. With all the soldiers in Winterfell, it wasn’t quite deserted. However everyone was busy drinking and singing.

Clark and Jon picked up a couple of training swords and found an isolated corner of the yard. They spent the first five minutes stretching. Jon saw him one day and started copying him. It wasn’t as though Westeros had never heard of stretching, but it was not thought as a regular part of exercise. Jon said he had to stretch quickly before Ser Rodrik showed. To avoid questions.

Afterwards, they took their positions. Jon had yet to hit puberty, but he was still growing in strength and agility quickly. He slowed down for Robb, but in the secret spars with the librarian, Tiresias, he was comfortable enough to hit hard and fast.

Jon went first, swinging toward him. Clark blocked and counterattacked. They continued for a while. They varied their speeds. They tried different strikes. Sometimes it was no bars hold.

Clark took it in stride. The regular exercise and sparring did him wonders. He still had no idea how he would fare against an opponent who was an adult or an experienced fighter. But he could see himself lasting for a little while.

It was gradual, but over the last few months, he felt himself becoming cautiously optimistic. It wasn’t just that he was able to incorporate moves he witnessed from the house guard’s scrimmage. It wasn’t just he was growing stronger from the exercise. The instinct that saved him at the inn that first week in Westeros was there when he trained.

Sometimes in the first month, Jon’s sword would hit and leave a big bruise but eventually he dodged every hit he couldn’t block. His dodges became more and more graceful. His grip on the sword was a little weird, but after Jon corrected it, it felt very natural to grasp it. Dueling with it became more fun. He felt an energy course through him as he trained. Sometimes the instinct felt foreign, helpfully bending his body to its will. Other times it wasn’t even noticeable.

The sword wasn’t the only weapon he tried. Well, in truth he tried only two more but they were fun. Jon showed him the staffs. He also shot in the archery range on his own, but for now it was a wooden sword with Jon Snow, cheering him up after a downer of a feast.

Behind them, Clark heard a group wander into the training yard, laughing. He kept his attention to Jon. They were out of the way. It was not their business.

They slowed down a little. Jon wanted to work on his ripostes and Clark indulged him. He swung his sword to Jon at quarterspeed, who blocked it, bringing his blade down to knock his sword out of his hand. Clark released his weapon, letting it fall with the snow.

“Well done, Jon” he said.

His words were drowned out by loud cheers and whistles. He turned to see the group of soldiers who had wandered into the training yard. Some were Stark men he recognized, some others he didn’t. One came forward, a mug in one hand.

“Tiresias? Gods man, come here!” Clark was wrapped in a bear hug. The enormous man was called Gord. A friendly cheery man who loved his mother dearly. She lived in Wintertown. Clark genuinely returned the hug and they separated.

“Glad to see you made it back alive, Gord.”

“Me too, believe me! Didn’t see you last night. What are you doing out here?”

Clark picked up the wooden sword on the ground. “Jon and I were just having a bit of a spar.”

Gord laughed. “A spar? Fuck me. I didn’t know you fought. I thought you were a librarian?”

Clark shrugged. The man attitude was still friendly. “I have two hands, Gord. They can pick up a sword as well as a book.”

“Not that well! Boy just disarmed you? We just saw.”

Clark smiled and looked to Jon, who was looking like he wanted to disappear.

“He did,” Clark said. “He’s a very talented swordsman. He’ll grow to be better than any of us.”

Gord laughed. “I believe it! Lad has a fierce look in his eye!”

The teasing was good-natured. However it was hard for an eight-year-old to see that when everyone else laughing is so much bigger. Clark saw Jon’s face fall. 

A red-bearded soldier that Clark didn’t recognize spoke up. “Is that how you Stark men train? Twirling sticks with little bastards? You lot ought to try fighting real men sometime.”

The soldiers from Winterfell laughed, but still had to held back by the others. Clark’s eyes were still on Jon. They could dismiss themselves and walk away. That would be the smart thing to do. However, there was an energy in the yard that Clark couldn’t dismiss. It was calling him to do something potentially very stupid.

Deciding to follow that instinct, Clark turned back to the soldiers.

“Like you?” he asked.

Redbeard looked at him like he didn’t expect Clark to actually speak. “Like me what?”

“Are you a man? Will you spar with me? Hand to hand?”

There was a few seconds of silence before the group descended into laughter.

“Why?” said Redbeard, wiping tears from his eyes. “You’re no soldier, no guard. You wanna get your arse pummeled?”

Clark shrugged. “If that’s what happens.”

“Tiresias…” Gord stepped forward, still smiling but placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, man. You don’t want this.”

“It’s just a spar, Gord,” Clark said, his eyes still on the red-bearded man. “What’s your name?”

Redbeard took a swig from his wineskin. “Anthor Apperford. Sworn to House Glover.”

“Well, Anthor, why not show us all how real men should fight?,” Clark said smiling. He kept his tone light.

“I’ll be doing Winterfell a disservice fighting you, pretty man. You’ll break your hands punching me. Won’t be able to turn them pages.”

The men from House Glover and others laughed, while the ones from Winterfell were quiet. Some were still smiling, but they were sobering quickly. Clark stepped forward, pushing Gord’s hand off his shoulder.

“That’s a nice excuse there, Apperford. Never thought I’d meet a big man too scared to fight a human twig.”

Anthor looked to him, then down laughing quietly. But when he raised the wineskin again to take another swig, his eyes were different and very focused on him.

_And with that dumbassery, I’ve sealed my fate. And that’s fine, I need fighting experience if I’m going to be any use when they come. Getting pummeled will be a lesson in and of itself._

That’s what he told himself at least.

After he drained the last of his drink, Anthor tossed the skin to the man next to him. No one spoke for a bit.

“Hand to hand?” he asked.

“That’s right,” said Clark. He nodded to an open area in the yard, where the snow was gently falling. “How about there? Real Northmen fight in the cold after all.”

“Aye. I’ll see you there, arselick.” And with that, Anthor and his buddies stalked to the area. Clark turned and strode to Jon, kneeling before the boy.

“Could you do me a favor, Jon?” he said, holding out the wooden practice sword. “Would you hold this for me?”

Jon blinked and closed his mouth, before taking the sword. Clark walked over to the group, Gord joining him on the way.

“You’re a damn fool, friend,” he said as evenly as he could for being drunk. “Why…why’d you say those things?”

“I want a spar.”

They reached the area and Anthor was removing his jacket and rolling his sleeves. He was a beefy man. If the cold was affecting him, he didn’t show it. Clark pulled his own shirt off, giving it to Gord to hold. He didn’t want to ruin it.

He walked forward, breathing normally as he and Anthor took positions.

“You’re no Northman,” said Anthor, raising his clenched fists. “Not too cold for you, now?”

Clark deigned not to answer, bending his knees slightly and turning to the side. He raised his hands to his navel, leaving them unclenched.

“Don’t worry, I’ll warm you up nice.”

Clark smiled. “I’m sure. First on his back?”

Anthor smiled back. “Fine.”

He heard a few wagers being finalized. The men were muttering, but he could hear them clearly. All were against him. The only speculation was how long he’d last.

All mutterings disappeared as Anthor pulled back for the first punch. Clark saw his fist coming and dodged easily, stepping to the side. Anthor’s grin widened as he gave another jab and strike, and disappeared as Clark evaded both of those as well.

_Was that impulse mine? Or whatever’s been with me for months?_

Anthor was clearly not expecting Clark to be as quick as he was. He gave several more punches, which Clark avoided. Both circled the other, each adhering to good sportsmanship or some bullshit like that.

_Okay, this isn’t real fighting experience. But it is the next level up from sparring with a little boy._

Heaving from the punches, each more unsteady the previous one, and beginning to shiver from the cold, Anthor did not look amused anymore. He was beginning to glare at him.

“You won’t win by dancing around, cocksucker,” he said, his eyes glinting. “Got to land some hits of your own.”

Clark lowered his arms. “Funny. I was going to say the same thing to you.”

That did it. Pulling back further than necessary, Anthor threw a wild punch at Clark, who stepped aside, allowing Anthor to fly past him, exposing his back.

_There it is._

Clark gave his first real punch of the night, aiming approximately for Anthor’s kidney. He connected well and the man went to his knees, clutching his side. Breathing heavily, he knelt there and Clark went behind him.

“Do you yield?” he asked.

Anthor stumbled to his feet and steadied, hissing as he breathed. He turned around.

“No…no, I don’t fucking yield,” he snarled.

Clark nodded. “All right then. I’m still having fun.”

That did nothing to cool Anthor’s temper. The beefy soldier from House Glover turned a deeper shade of red and raised his fists. Clark raised his fists too, as well as planting his left foot.

With a yell of frustration, Anthor rushed forward, stretching his fist back. Clark threw his arms down and raised his right leg quickly, meeting Anthor’s face with a front kick.

Anthor fell to the ground immediately. His friends came and knelt over him, checking him and shaking him awake. Clark walked to back to Gord for his shirt. Gord handed it over absentmindedly, staring at Anthor lying in the show.

Clark brushed the snow from his bare shoulders and pulled his shirt back on.

“Was that a lowly move, Gord? Not keeping it to the fists?” he asked.

Gord looked at him, as if for the first time. He recovered though and shrugged.

“It was a spar, so maybe. But he was already fighting someone half his weight. Fair game in my view.”

“You had lasting me all of four hits?”

Gord nodded and handed him a flask. “I did. Apologies, mate.”

“That’s all right.” Clark took a swig of the liquor, something barely resembling whiskey. He struggled not to cough. “Sorry I couldn’t make you rich tonight.”

“Forget it. None of us made any coin in this fight.”

Clark handed the flask back. Anthor was already coming to, blinking and being helped to his feet. Clark walked over to him. It took a few seconds for Anthor to see him and he stilled.

Nobody said anything for a few seconds before Clark stuck out his hand.

“Good fight,” he said. “Next time, if you’re willing, we’ll use the weapon of your choice.”

The glint did not lessen in Anthor’s eyes, but he did grasp Clark’s hand. They shook, with Clark doing his best to ignore that Anthor was gripping his hand far too tightly to be friendly. However he did let go and after some encouragement from the lads and a flowering plan to visit the Wintertown brothel, he turned to walked away.

“Anthor,” called Clark.

The big man turned back slowly. Clark could see his face beginning to bruise already.

“The young boy, the bastard, his name is Jon Snow.”

He said it simply, at least he hoped. Not angry, not petulant, just a simple correction.

Anthor’s eyes wandered over to the corner where Jon stood. Looking back to Clark, he gave a lazy spat of blood and walked off.

Clark felt Gord come up behind him.

“You were mad ‘cause he called Jon a bastard?” Gord said bewildered. “Mate, he is a bastard.”

He shrugged. “Just the way he said it. I knew Jon could tell.”

“Is that the only reason you kicked his face in?”

Clark shook his head. “No, but it helped.” He patted the big man’s shoulder. “Have a good night, Gord. Thanks for holding my shirt.”

He walked over to where he had started the night. Jon was still there, holding the wooden sword, next to a brazier. Clark walked up and reached for the sword. Jon handed it to him.

“Thank you,” he said.

Jon looked at him suspiciously, like he’d never properly seen him before. Clark sighed, looking to the fire.

“What is it, Jon?”

“Are you really a librarian?” he asked.

“I am now. Your father hired me to help expand the Winterfell library. You know that. What else do you think I do all day in there?”

“How did you beat that soldier?”

“He was drunk and slow, so I kicked him in the face.”

Jon didn’t look amused. “You said you didn’t know how to fight.”

“I didn’t know how to use a sword. That’s what I meant.”

Jon walked to the rack of practice swords and placed his wooden one back. Seeing that the night was over, Clark followed and did the same. He walked back to the fire, waiting for Jon to speak.

“You’re a good swordsman,” Jon said a little sullenly, appearing by his side, his hands to the fire. “I think so anyway.”

Clark smiled appreciatively. “You’ve been a great help, but I’m still not that good. I started too late and that will always be against me. Why do you think I suggested hand to hand?”

Jon glanced at him furtively before refocusing on the fire.

“You could dodge him with a sword too,” said Jon. “You move quicker than anyone in the yard.”

“Really?”

Jon nodded, to which Clark shrugged.

“Well, it’s easier to dodge a punch than a blade. Least in my experience. I can dodge but that won’t last forever and when I’m caught, I’d better know how to deflect and counter with an actual weapon.”

“Do you still want to spar with me then?”

Clark looked down to see Jon’s worry in his eyes. That his new friend would find sparring with a child boring after beating up a meathead. He knelt down to meet his eyes.

“I would love to keep sparring with you, Jon,” he said. “It would be a pleasure. Although, we should wait until all the soldiers go home. So the training yard will be ours again.”

Jon nodded eagerly and Clark stood.

“Now, if you’d excuse me, Jon Snow, I’m tired. I want to bathe and go to sleep. Good night.”

“Good night,” Jon muttered before scurrying off.

Later that evening, Clark laid awake, examining his right hand by the candlelight. It was fine. Everything went fine. Almost too fine. That fight was much easier than he expected. Was the man that drunk or slow? Did he really hit that hard?

He blew out the candle and closed his eyes, still thinking. He needed a real way to test whatever was happening with him. He wanted to set his boundaries. Find his limits. Before everything went to shit.

But as he was drifting off to sleep, he realized he probably wouldn’t find his limit until he was well past it. The Stark children in the story found their strength when they lost everything and were placed in horrific scenarios. They all suffered. Some grew past it. Others didn’t.

He supposed he could only hope to be part of the former group and not die before he served his purpose. Whatever it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Thank you for your kudos and comments. See you next Monday!


	11. Chapter Eleven

The Great Hall was full of soldiers and lords, preparing to ride out for their respective keeps. Clark had expected them to be gone by the time he went down for breakfast, but instead he walked into a relatively crowded hall of hungover, miserable men murmuring softly to one another. One young Karstark lad ran past him out the door, looking for a safe place to be sick. Laughter filled the end of the hall before stifling out.

Clark looked to the end of the hall to see Catelyn Stark, sitting with Bran. He strode toward them. It had been a while since he’d spoken to the Lady of Winterfell. Walking past a group of Glover men, he caught a few whispers and suppressed a grimace. He didn’t know how quickly or far stories of last night’s bout would travel. He certainly didn’t need it spreading farther than Winterfell. For now though, it was only that one group and Clark heard no more whispers follow him up the hall.

Bran looked at Clark as he approached, having starting to recognize him in the past few months. He would be turning two soon. Catelyn followed Bran’s gaze and locked eyes with Clark. She looked exhausted, but collected. He stopped before her table and nodded politely.

“Good morning, Lady Stark. How are you?” he said.

She smiled, but her eyes were strained. “I’m fine, Tiresias, thank you for asking. And how do you fare?”

“Fairly decent, my lady. Better than most here. Though I admit, not much of a standard to meet.”

The shadow of a laugh went across her face.

“May I help you, Tiresias?”

“I wished to speak to you, my lady, about the library and its future contents. I’d figured…”

“Tiresias,” Catelyn stated, interrupting. “I appreciate your diligent work to expand Winterfell’s library. However, I’m afraid I don’t have the time or energy today to worry about it. I need to see these men off. I need to check the stores. I need to speak to Maester Aemon about Theon Greyjoy. Those are my priorities now and I can’t set them aside to deal with our literary revival. I need…”

She paused and looked at Bran, who was watching this conversation in utter fascination. Sighing, she reached over and broke his bacon in bite sized pieces.

“Come on, dear. Finish your breakfast, like a good boy, so you can grow,” she said.

Bran gave one last look to his mother and Clark, before continuing to eat. Lady Catelyn turned to Clark.

“I apologize for my outburst, Tiresias. I appreciate your hard work, but I’m afraid I don’t have the time to tend to the project.”

“No apology is necessary, my lady,” Clark said. “I had nothing immediate to discuss. I simply wanted to say that in my ongoing task to collect mores tomes and volumes for the library, if there are any specific works you would wish to acquire or topics on which you would want me to gather, Lord Stark, Maester Luwin and I would gladly welcome your suggestions. Your husband may rule the North, but you’re the Lady of Winterfell. So when it comes to the library’s expansion, well, it really wouldn’t do in my view to not bring in your opinion. Should you wish to give it.”

Lady Catelyn peered at him, not saying a word. Clark cleared his throat.

“That’s all I really wanted to say. I know you’ll be tremendously busy the next few days.” He nodded again. “My lady,” he said, making to turn away.

“Tiresias,” Catelyn said. Clark stopped, looking at her.

“Have you had breakfast yet?”

He shook his head. “Not yet, my lady.”

She gestured to the bench in front of her.

“Sit, please.”

Clark did so. A serving girl came behind him immediately. He turned to see Mal.

“Morning, Mal.”

She didn’t look hungover. If she was surprised to see him with Lady Stark for breakfast, she didn’t show it.

“Good morning,” she said briskly.

Usually, Tiresias and she would have bantered. But the look in her eyes suggested that wouldn’t be the case this morning. Too casual when serving the high lords and ladies. Even at breakfast.

“May I please have some bacon with a hardboiled egg and bread with butter if we have any left?” he asked.

She nodded. “We do. Ale?”

“Just water, thank you.”

Mal went off and Clark was alone with Lady and little Lord Stark. Catelyn leaned back in the chair ever so slightly. It was hardly noticeable up close.

“It is tiring, hosting a group of rowdy Northerners, isn’t it?” Clark asked.

Catelyn gave a slight smile. “They’ll be off soon. Ned will be here. I’m very lucky, I know. Not many women still have their husbands after two wars. Well…” She shrugged. “One war and one rebellion, I suppose. I doubt history will label it anything more than that.”

“Conflict is always a risk, my lady,” Clark said. “I’m not just saying this because your lord husband gave me my position, but I’m very happy to see him back as well.”

“Thank you, Tiresias,” she said before attending to Bran, who decided to start running his fingers through the egg yolk. Clark waited as Catelyn handed him off to the governess. She kissed him goodbye. Bran’s eyes went to Clark as he was led off, holding his governess’s hand. He waved to the little lord, who promptly waved back before disappearing for a bath.

Catelyn turned back to him. “I was so distracted by the rebellion and everything else concerning Winterfell, that I forgot to say: the new layout is beautiful. I was worried it would seem overcrowded, but it’s quite elegant.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I’m sure the children will enjoy it as they grow.”

Clark shrugged. “Perhaps. Though some children, probably most, prefer to learn outside than in an old library.”

“Robb is such a boy and I’m afraid Arya will follow him,” said Catelyn, sipping her water. “She can’t sit still.”

“Robb reads a fair bit for his age. He just follows his interest…which is exclusively warfare, but he pursues it himself after his lessons. Arya will be the same. She has energy, but she’s too intelligent not to want to learn what she’s interested in.”

Mal returned to the table with a cup, which she filled with water. Clark thanked her as she left and took a sip.

“We can hope,” said Catelyn. “Though I will say, you’ve had quite an influence on them. The children find you fascinating. I’m glad they’ve grown accustomed to you in the past few months.”

He placed his water down. “Were you in the library much as a child, Lady Stark? At Riverrun?”

She thought for a few seconds. “Not much, I believe. I enjoyed reading the old songs. They were romantic. I read many books concerning the Faith of the Seven. I suppose that’s something I could ask you to keep a lookout for in your literary inquiry.”

Already thinking of excuses not to do so, Clark nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

She gave a conceding sigh. “I do suppose I enjoyed the rivers more than the library. There are not many rivers here.”

Clark swallowed. “Must have been a good childhood. You, your sister and brother? Lysa and Edmure?”

She nodded. “Yes, she was happy then.”

“Was it just the three of you, then?”

“For the most part, yes.”

“Whom else did you play with at Riverrun?” said Clark, praying he sounded natural.

“Many of the noble children if their lord fathers were calling on the court. My father had a ward. When we were younger and it was harmless, we’d played with the maids. One of them was very good at hiding.”

“Whom did your father bring on as a ward?” asked Clark, as he brought the cup up to his mouth for a covering sip.

“Lord Petyr Baelish,” said Catelyn. “Although we didn’t call him that as children. He was simply Petyr or Littlefinger. His father became close with ours during the campaign against the Ninepenny Kings.”

“Littlefinger?”

“Just a poor nickname of Edmure’s that stuck.” She looked nostalgic and Clark knew better to interrupt her. Just let her speak on. “He was quite small and his family came from the Fingers in the Vale. He must have been eight or so when he came to Riverrun. He was very witty and charming, a good friend but…”

Her voice trailed and her mouth thinned. Clark’s thoughts flashed to the story of Petyr’s unrequited love of Catelyn, Lysa’s unrequited love of him, the duel between Petyr and Brandon, Hoster Tully forcing Lysa to abort…

He had no idea how much the general Westerosi public knew of the scandal. It was a good bet however, that he, Tiresias, foreign and humble librarian of Winterfell, would not know anything of it. He continued as such.

“Lady Stark, are you all right?”

Her eyes and face relaxed on cue and she smiled reassuringly.

“Quite all right, Tiresias. Thank you.”

The hall began to empty, with benches clattering against the stone floor. Many of the soldiers were now due to depart.

“Where is he now?” Clark asked as offhandedly as he possibly could.

“Who?”

“Lord Baelish, where is he now?”

“I received a raven from last year from Petyr,” she said. “He had become a customs officer at Gulltown. Lord Arryn appointed him. He’s doing quite well for himself and for the port. Not that I ever doubted him in that regard. Petyr was always quite acute when it came to coin.”

_So he’s not Master of Coin just yet…_

“It sounds like a good arrangement for him. And you’re here as Lady of Winterfell. I assume that Lord Edmure’s at Riverrun? And Lady Arryn is at the Vale?”

“Actually Lysa is in King’s Landing, with her husband.”

“Any children?”

Catelyn’s face fell. “She’s tried multiple times. Unfortunately none of them…” she trailed off, before brightening again. “However, she’s about to give birth in the next month. I pray that it will be a healthy babe.”

Clark matched her smile, not trying to think how old that would make Robin at the start of the first season, when he was still breastfeeding…

Blinking that image out of his head, he congratulated Catelyn. His breakfast arrived shortly later, courtesy of Mal. He ate slowly. It became increasingly difficult to swallow, as he considered what he must do.

* * *

Two days later, Clark stood in the godswood, in front of the weirwood tree. Ned Stark told him to meet him there. There were no guards present when he approached the gates. Maybe no one really wasn’t banned from entering. After all, it was a place of worship.

He wore his fur cloak for appearance’s sake. He heard from Luwin that the weather was turning in the south and spring will probably be announced soon from the Citadel. Still there was snow and he didn’t feel like explaining to Ned Stark that he didn’t care about the cold.

As he waited, he realized this was the first time that he had been alone with the weirwood. His eyes locked with the hollow weeping ones in the white bark. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He knew that the Three-Eyed Raven could see everything, even when he was out of the godswood. But here he actually felt something watching him.

He walked in front of the tree, facing it head-on. Somehow the snow-laden godswood became even more silent.

“Do you hear me, Three Eyed Raven?” he asked quietly.

If it did, there was no response. Clark looked at his hand and placed his palm on the tree.

A bird chirped in the distance. Clark jumped slightly and laughed in spite of himself. He focused again on the carved face.

“Did you have a grand plan last time for what happened? I suppose there was balance at the end of it. But quite a few people suffered and died for it. Maybe it was worth it in the end. I wouldn’t know.”

He brought his hand down to his side.

“I’m already here. And maybe I’m doing horrible harm by being here. Handing the world over to ice and fire. I’ll try not to do that. Try not to take the weapons for the living out before they can even be forged.

“I don’t expect to hear from you. In dreams or otherwise. Maybe Jojen will come up in ten years and tell me on your behalf that I’ve ruined everything. If so, I’m sorry. You probably aren’t interested in the apologies of mere mortals, but that’s all I got. Do you already know what I want to do next?”

The tree remained silent. Clark sighed.

“Yeah, well, I hope it doesn’t fuck this future up too badly.”

He heard snow crunching from boots. Turning, he saw Ned coming into the clearing. The Lord of Winterfell came up to him and shook his hand.

“It’s good to see you, Lord Stark.”

Ned nodded. “You as well.” He looked to see that they were alone before speaking. “Balon Greyjoy is dead. I’m sure you’ve heard. Along with his two eldest sons, Rodrik and Maron.”

“And Euron?”

Ned sighed. “Missing. He was commanding the Iron Fleet with his brother, Aeron, when Lord Stannis caught them in the pincer. He wasn’t accounted for after the battle and neither was one of the smaller vessels.”

Clark bit his lip, lowering his head. It took a lot not to curse.

“It is possible he drowned,” said Ned, though he sounded like he didn’t believe it.

“More likely that he saw the rebellion was hopeless and ran.” Clark rubbed his temples. “Euron’s not the type to accept defeat gracefully. He’ll get a crew together soon and a ship, starting pirating all over the known world.”

“Is what happened in your vision?”

Clark shrugged. “My vision…Aeron Greyjoy sits in Pyke now, yes? As a puppet Lord?”

“He does.”

“What’s Aeron Greyjoy like?”

That wasn’t the question Ned expected to hear.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Is he religious? Is he a fanatic for the Drowned God?” Clark asked, daring to hope.

Ned shook his head. “I never met him. He was brought to Pyke after I left, but no. From I heard, he’s like most men. He likes food, women and drink. My men told me they heard a rumor that Aeron spent most of his captivity waging pissing matches against his jailers. I suppose he believes in the Drowned God, as the Ironborn do, but nothing too extreme. At least from what I heard.”

So, Aeron Greyjoy was not a fanatic yet. His near drowning must have taken place at some point after the rebellion. Perhaps he’ll avoid it entirely.

At least Clark hoped. He breathed easier.

“In my vision, Balon would have not learned his lesson from this rebellion. He would have tried again. I’m glad that won’t happen now. I suppose we can only hope that Aeron won’t have the same stubborn blind ambition to be King of Salt and Rock.”

Without finding anything humorous, Clark gave a small laugh. “Then again, if Aeron can’t control his bannermen, they might just be stupid enough to rebel anyway. I’m not sure how much respect the Ironborn have for the youngest son appointed to be a puppet lord, even if he is a Greyjoy.”

There was an odd look in Ned’s eyes. He didn’t speak for a few seconds.

_Another stepping in for his slain older brother._

“And Euron?” said Ned, moving on.

“Gone for now, I suppose. It’s not clear what he went through, but if the future’s anything like I saw, he come back more deranged and dangerous than ever.

“He killed his brother, Balon and won over the men at a Kingsmoot.” Ned’s shoulders tensed at the mention of kinslaying. Clark continued. “Obviously, that won’t happen, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Aeron Greyjoy meets a similar end.

“Euron wants to rule by naval warfare and piracy. When he’s done licking his wounds and becomes more twisted, he’ll probably start with an Ironborn Kingsmoot. For him, it would seem uncivilized any other way. Knowing him, he’ll wait until the rest of Westeros is distracted.”

Ned sighed. “It seems we missed a grand opportunity to remove one infuriating thorn from our side.”

Clark waved it away. “Balon’s gone. Was that your doing?”

“King Robert asked for counsel. I said my piece.”

“And Balon is now dead. I’m glad for that. As for Euron, if I were you, I’d keep an eye out around Pyke for him in the next few years. He’ll come back there. One day. Besides he’s just one man of many that should be removed to make our lives easier.”

Ned looked at him strangely and Clark winced.

“Probably should not have told you what to do…Well I really said it’s what I would do. So I hope that wasn’t too impertinent.”

“Who else would you have removed?” Ned asked. The Lord of Winterfell looked a little horrified at Clark’s suggestion. He did his best not to crumple under the Lord’s stare.

“I don’t think I should tell you that. It wouldn’t sit well with a man of your convictions.”

“I have killed men on your suggestion.”

“In an armed conflict, Lord Stark. What needs to happen now has to be convert. The ones that need to die are ones who have not moved against your family yet. They’ll have to be dealt with beforehand.”

A cold wind ran through the godswood. Neither Ned Stark or Clark shivered.

“How many?” Ned asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Clark replied honestly. “But there is one that I need to deal with as soon as possible.”

“Will you tell me whom?”

“If you order me to, if you truly wish to know,” said Clark, praying that Ned wouldn’t insist. There was a long silence. Ned looked to the ground as he wrestled with his response. Clark figured this blind trust to kill didn’t sit well with what he told Bran in the first episode.

“If I may say, Lord Stark, you’re not the one passing the sentence and I’ll be doing it myself,” Clark said, hoping those were the magic words. “You won’t be throwing out your honor entirely.”

Ned met his eyes.

“What do you need from me?” he asked.

Clark relaxed. “I don’t know yet. I still have to formulate a plan. Maybe nothing at all, but I’m not sure yet. If we talk again in a week, I should have something.”

The Lord of Winterfell strode to the weirwood tree and sat. It was the same position that he had when he sharpened his sword as he learned of Lord Arryn’s death. The same nook of roots. Clark didn’t follow him. He stuck to the edge of the pond.

“And the Walkers?”

“That’s your area, I’m afraid. I’m no lord. I’m not from the North. I barely know anything about your military, your keeps, your food storages. I feel that I would be a terrible advisor here. I can only tell you what I believe needs to happen. You can act on it how you wish. We’ll keep it simple for now. No point in throwing you a bunch of balls you can’t juggle.

“So I’ll only say a few things today. Let’s start easy: your food storages will need to be full, safe and probably expanded. You’re going into the longest summer in living memory. Your harvests will be plentiful and you’ll need to take advantage of that. The North was straining rations at the beginning of winter and that was after a bunch of Northerners were killed. Presumably if there are more people alive at the start of next winter, with hopefully one less war and with refugees, you’ll need more than you think.

“Again, I know nothing about farming, food storage and such. So if you need to build more glasshouses, import more from the Reach or anything else, I would do it. Grain will become more valuable than gold.”

Ned took that in very calmly. “I was thinking the same when I was riding back to Winterfell. I’ll speak to Maester Aemon this week and also Vanyon Poole, see if we can increase the capacity for stores in Winterfell. Perhaps the Broken Tower.”

He looked back to Clark. “Continue, please.”

“My second suggestion is contact Dragonstone,” said Clark, hoping he wouldn’t have to go there himself. “Write to Lord Stannis Baratheon in King’s Landing and set up a trade.”

“What sort of trade?”

“I don’t know what you can offer, but you need to import dragonglass.”

That took the Lord of Winterfell back a bit.

“Dragonglass?”

“Yes, as much as you possibly can. There’s a whole cavern of it on the beach next to the castle.” Clark thought to the Children of the Forest and how they etched their history in those walls. He hated the thought of destroying it, but he knew what needed to be done. “You’ll need to mine it.”

“Whatever for? Dragonglass is useless.”

Clark shook his head, almost smiling. It was hard at times, not to feel smug revealing knowledge like this. That was a feeling he would have to curb as soon as possible.

“Dragonglass is one of the few things in this world that can kill White Walkers and wights. The Children of the Forest forged weapons out of dragonglass. Members of the Night’s Watch stumbled across them beyond the wall and discovered their use. Without that, many more would have died.

“I don’t know what excuse you can give Lord Stannis. I wouldn’t speak the truth just yet. But you need to mine that cave and you need to import the dragonglass. Forge it into weapons, put them in traps, do whatever your military-savvy mind thinks of. But you should get it here.”

Ned looked a little lost. “Military-savvy?”

Clark winced. “Sorry. Just…military-minded. Please don’t repeat that.”

Seemingly putting the new word out of his mind, Ned Stark became quiet. Clark could him focusing on the task at hand. He seemed a true leader, wasting no time in breaking down big undertakings and managing them at the small levels. It didn’t seem overwhelming.

Clark hoped that wouldn’t change with what he had to say next.

“My final bit of advice today is…” he began, taking a moment to swallow, “you have to bring the Free Folk south of the Wall.”

There was a reason Clark began with food and dragonglass. He didn’t think Ned a particularly prejudiced man, at least for a Northerner. He didn’t imagine that he could make the same suggestion to an Umber or Lord Robbett Glover or anyone below the Neck. That didn’t stop a look of incredulity from spreading over Ned’s face. Clark didn’t wait for him to respond.

“The greatest threat of the Army of the Dead was sheer numbers. When they attacked Winterfell in my vision, they numbered well over one hundred thousand. It won’t matter how many soldiers the North can muster, they will be overwhelmed at some point, if the Night King manages to get an army of that size again. If you won’t look at it as saving the lives of wildlings, look at it as the smart military move. Stifling your enemy’s growth.”

Ned’s incredulity was replaced by grimness. His gaze fell from Clark’s face to the pond. However he said nothing and so Clark continued:

“These are not ordinary soldiers. They’re wights. Everyone who has died will be a fighter for them. Men, women, children, even creatures you think gone, like giants.” He decided not to mention Viserion. That was a headache for another day. “The wights do not fear or feel. They do not grow tired. They will remain strong and fast until their end.”

There was no response from Ned. Clark knelt next to him, his voice dropping to a hushed mutter. Why, he did not know.

“Lord Stark, you cannot give the Night King any more opportunity to build his army. His White Walkers will start attacking villages beyond the Wall. Killing everyone and resurrecting them as part of his army. There are many Free Folk up there and most will die. They’ll be his for the taking if you don’t bring them south.”

Lord Stark raised his head and sighed.

“It may be the smart thing to do, for this war you see coming.” He turned to face Clark. “But bringing thousands of wildlings south of the Wall will bring chaos to the North. Many of my bannermen will protest, refuse my orders and probably rebel. In a time when I will need the whole cooperation of the North in order to fortify, farm and prepare for this long winter. That won’t happen if my men see their Warden opening the gates for wildlings. There’s too much animosity there. Too much blood spilled on both sides.”

“I know,” said Clark. “To be honest, I’m not sure how you’re going to do it. I’m not a politician, I’m no Northerner and in this case, when you can’t say why you fear the second coming of the White Walkers, I don’t know what you should say to convince them.”

“Would you be willing to speak to the Northern Lords? Is there anything you could say to have them convinced what you say is true?”

Clark resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “What would I say? The only things that convinced you were the letter from Howland Reed and the truth behind Little Jon. The trust and friendship you have with Howland is unique. No one else, not even in the North, respect the crannogmen as much as you. As for any other secrets I shouldn’t know…” Clark shrugged. “Unless one of your bannermen is hiding a secret king as well, I have nothing on them.”

“What happened in the beginning?” said Ned.

“What do you mean?”

“How did this start? What was the beginning of the White Walker army as you saw it?” Lord Stark’s eyes were determined. Any signs of grimness were gone. It wasn’t exactly hope, just a refusal to give in.

Thinking back to the first scene of the show, Clark almost smiled, despite himself. What was once entertainment for him was becoming a living nightmare.

“Well, the timeline’s a little tricky,” Clark began. “I’m gonna guess in about eight or nine years, the White Walkers are finally going to be south enough from the Land of Always Winter to be noticed. The villages that they raid will get the attention of the Night’s Watch. They’ll start sending rangers to investigate. They’ll disappear. Including your brother, Benjen.

“My vision began with one range. It was led by the son of Yohn Royce. I forget his name…”

“Lord Yohn Royce has three sons” stated Ned. “Andar, Robar, Waymar…”

“Waymar, yes, that was it. Bit of a cocky lad. Anyway, he was in the Night’s Watch at this point and he led a ranging with two others. Waymar and one other are killed. The other man flees, past the Wall and is captured by your men for desertion. I think his name was Will. Will tells you what he saw, that the White Walkers are back. You behead him.”

Even though he didn’t mean it, there was a hint of accusation in his voice. It wasn’t warranted.

“You didn’t know better. You simply did your duty. I was glad to see you didn’t get any joy of it. To be honest, Will might have been relieved. I don’t think he wanted to live in a world when he would meet a White Walker again.”

“And you do?” Ned asked.

Clark gave a short unamused laugh. “Of course, I don’t. But this is the only world I have now.”

A break in the clouds allowed rare winter sunlight to shine on the godswood. The snow reflected it, causing Clark to shield his eyes from the brightness.

“So it seems we must start at the Night’s Watch,” Ned said.

“I suppose. The Free Folk will be organizing too. Probably for the first time, I’m not sure of their history. There’s a man among them, Mance Rayder. I’m sure you’ve heard the name. As the attacks increase, Mance Rayder will convince many, if not all of the Free Folk to unite and attack the Wall, so that they could get across. Maybe you as Warden can start making overtures through the Night’s Watch, especially as they start noticing Walker activity. Maybe you can begin to bring people down peacefully and under some agreement. Even if they won’t cross the Wall straight away, at least they can settle closer, so that when they do decide to flee, it will be a quicker escape for them.”

Ned nodded. “That still leaves the lords of the North to contend with. The Night’s Watch is respected and that might help with the migration if they can be convinced to make peace. But it might not be enough.”

Clark stood, trying not to hiss. His legs fell asleep and they were stinging now.

“Well, it’s not something we can accomplish one day in the godswood,” he said. “I told you enough to occupy your mind and stress out any noble in the world. So I say we adjourn for now.”

Lord Stark stood as well. “I’ll hear about your first target before the week is over, yes?”

Clark nodded. “That’s the plan.” He resisted the urge to yell, “Break.” Ned Stark nodded and strode away, ending the conversation. Clark stayed a minute more, savoring the sunshine, before it disappeared.

He couldn’t help but think the whole situation rather quaint. Lord Stark and he, on a beautiful winter afternoon, thinking of a way to abort the oncoming ice apocalypse. Ned was right that the main obstacle would be the Northern lords. And to be honest, he had no idea how to handle them.

That didn’t matter right now though. Right now, he had a target and the beginnings of a plan to execute said target. He only hoped he could assemble all parts of the plan.

Clark took a final look at the weirwood tree and walked off. He wondered the Three-Eyed Raven was guiding him as well. Maybe he wasn’t a complete rogue agent, irreversibly damaging everything for the worse. It was a comforting thought. He wished he believed it.

* * *

Clark sat on Renei’s bed, after a cup of rum, bracing himself. He’d tried to think of any other way he could do this. Ultimately though he couldn’t. Apparently he was only human.

“I need to ask you something, Renei.”

He could still feel the rum burning his tongue. Renei had just set aside her own empty cup.

“Well, don’t you sound serious,” she teased, her eyes lighting with small laughter. She fetched some matches from the table and turned to him, awaiting his serious question.

Clark swallowed. “Were you telling me the truth, months ago, when you said you came from Gulltown?”

She tapped the matches against the table. “Funny enough, I was. Tend to honor my deals.”

“Do people know you’re from Gulltown?”

“What do you mean?”

“The girls, Ambre, the other men here? Have you told them?”

Her smile didn’t lessen, but her eyes narrowed. “The men here don’t care where I’m from.”

“And the girls?”

She extracted a match and shrugged. “Told Ambre I came north on the kingsroad. Let her think I’m from the Riverlands. Same with the others. They’re all Northern. They can’t tell Stones from Rivers.”

“Are you a bastard?”

“No,” she said lightly. “Just what they think.”

She struck her match and proceeded to light her candles.

“How well do you know the city?”

“What city?” asked Renei, her back turned.

“Gulltown. How well do you know it?”

“Why?”

“I have business there. You said your family had a cottage, aye?”

She didn’t move for a few seconds. Clark saw her shoulders set slightly before she turned around, her face nonchalant, still holding the lit match.

“The cottage is three miles north of Gulltown. I didn’t grow up inside the city.”

“But do you know it?”

She tossed the match into the fireplace. “My father used to take me and my brother there when he was still alive. And my sister when she got old enough. I…I haven’t been there in years. Last time was when I boarded the ship to White Harbor.” She began to undress.

“Would you like to go back?”

She paused pulling her dress down, looking at him warily. “What?”

“Not permanently. I need a traveling companion when I go there. Someone to help me not get lost.”

Renei pulled her dress up. “No.”

“Renei…”

“How you going to get lost? It’s one port city. You can read. There’s the city guard. You can ask for directions…”

“I can’t draw attention to myself,” said Clark. “I can’t arrive in Gulltown with a strange accent, not knowing where I’m going, having to ask for directions, being the foreign idiot. It can’t happen when I’m there.”

Renei sighed. “Do you know how long it takes to get to Gulltown?”

“About a fortnight on the road to White Harbor. A sennight sail from there,” said Clark. He had calculated this all last night. He considered going through the high road from the west, but that was a dangerous road to only two travelers. Plus, the road was currently closed due to the winter snows.

“And how long do you plan to stay in Gulltown?” asked Renei, her arms crossing.

“Two nights, maybe only one.”

“So three weeks there, in _good _weather, mind. A night or two and then straight back means near two months I’m not working, if we’re being generous. Don’t know about you, but I’m not paid to travel.”

“I’ll pay you for your time,” said Clark quietly.

Renei stared for a bit, and then started laughing. She laughed for a while, holding her side. Clark waited patiently.

“You? Two months of pay? Gods, you’re a riot. I twist your arm to come here every fortnight and now you’re going to pay me and Ambre out for two months.”

She stopped laughing eventually when she saw the look on Clark’s face.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“How much do you make here?” asked Clark.

“You trust me to tell you honest?”

Clark shrugged. “I’ll decide that when you tell me how much.”

She smiled. “Hundred dragons a month.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, now, ain’t you smart.” She dropped her smile and sighed. “I get about ten to fifteen dragons, depends. When I first came, I made fifty in my first three months. Men love a fresh one.”

Her eyes glazed over a little when she revealed that, but it was gone the next moment. Clark saw one girl like that when he entered this evening. His conscience pinged a little when he saw her. Even though, he would never choose someone so young, he was still supporting the establishment that offered her to others.

It couldn’t be helped now. He pressed on.

“How much will Ambre take to let you leave so that you’ll have your room when you come back?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. Fifteen dragons for two months sounds safe.”

“I’ll give you the fifteen dragons to pay her yourself and for you, I’ll pay sixty dragons for your time. Two months.”

The fire crackled. Renei and Clark stared at each other, refusing to break eye contact.

“Two months? As a traveling companion?”

“And guide. I’m not asking you to sleep with me. I don’t need a bedwarmer.”

Renei crossed to the bed and sat down. Her calm expression screamed for no bullshit, as she fixed her blue eyes on his.

“What do you need me for in Gulltown, really?” she asked quietly.

“I need an alibi,” said Clark evenly. “When we arrive, we’ll go about my business in the city quietly. Maybe I’ll seem to search for a tome or two. And then before it gets dark, we head north, out of the city gate. We are seen plainly by the guards posted there, and then we head for your family’s cottage.”

She didn’t move but there grew a storm in her eyes.

“Why am I bringing you to meet my family?” Her voice remained quiet.

“You’re bringing me to be seen by them. As your pretend husband. As a surprise. That’ll be part of the excuse you give Ambre. You’ll say you haven’t been home in years, that you missed your family and you want to visit. Tonight you heard me talking about going to the Riverlands for work and asked to travel with me for safety.”

For a minute, Renei didn’t speak. She finally stood slowly and walked to the door. She opened it and stood aside, looking to him.

“Get out,” she said.

“Renei, I…”

“Go. Now, bastard, before I start screaming” she said. He looked into her eyes and saw a deep fury. Sighing, he stood.

_Well, Clark, you truly fucked this one up._

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden dragon. It was one of the few he owned. He placed it on the table by the bed and walked to the open door, pausing before Renei.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She didn’t meet his eyes. He exited into the hallway without another word.

A brisk wind accompanied Clark on his walk home. He didn’t even bother putting on his furs to pretend to be cold. Thankfully no one was out and about. It was as if normal respectable people knew to vacate the streets when whoring, manipulative assholes come to prowl…

He sighed. Why the hell did he think that was a good idea? Yes, he could use an extra man to help him as he attempted his first ever assassination. He just didn’t think that…well, that was it. He just didn’t think. Or he was just a selfish bastard, trying to save the world at whatever cost, no matter how people he made feel like shit…

These thoughts occupied Clark’s mind until he was right outside the gates of Winterfell. He was about to raise his voice and call for the night guard to let him in when he hear snow crunching behind him. He turned and saw a dark figure marching quickly toward him.

Recognizing the shape, he walked back as the figure came into the moonlight. Renei was wrapped in a shawl, trembling a little.

“Damn it all, you walk fast,” she said. Her teeth were chattering. Clark stepped forward and wrapped his fur cloak around her. She glared at him, but didn’t protest.

“Walk me back?” she asked. “I told Ambre you forgot your gloves.” She stared a little at him, probably realizing how underdressed he was. “Gods, do you even have gloves?”

Clark shook his head. Renei rolled her eyes.

“Fine, just walk me back.” She didn’t wait for an answer and turned back around. Clark followed, falling in right beside her. They didn’t speak for a minute. Finally about halfway back to the brothel, she broke the silence.

“What do you really need to do in Gulltown? Why don’t you need to draw attention to yourself?”

“Do you really want to know?”

She didn’t answer that. But after a minute, she spoke again. “Are you going to hurt anyone?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re more than a librarian. People talk. Maybe not much outside the castle, but they do. The boys from Deepwood Motte spoke a bit when they came to visit after the rebellion. The redbeard’s face looked mighty pretty.”

“Anthor?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know his name. His mates didn’t believe us or the Stark guards when we said you were just a librarian. I don’t believe it either, you know.”

He didn’t know how to respond. Luckily she didn’t seem to expect him to.

“My mother, my brother, my sister…they’ll never leave their cottage. Maybe my sister when she weds…but they’ll never step one foot outside the Vale.” She kicked a pile of snow lightly, sending a flurry into an empty pigpen. “And I won’t ever go back there. Not to live.”

Clark felt his heart racing and breathed deeply to calm it. He learned from someone, he forgot whom, that remaining silent during a conversation often prompted the other person into talking much more than they intended.

Renei and he arrived at the brothel and stopped in front. She turned to face him, still wrapped deep in his furs. The hot fury he had seen earlier turned stone cold. There was a deep pause, with only laughing and the usual exaggerated moans of pleasure coloring the silence.

“What do you plan on saying to my family?” she asked, her voice low.

“Nothing,” said Clark. “If I could, I would be a mute. Avoid questions about my accent.”

She stepped forward. “As far as my family knows, I work as a maid in Winterfell. That’s what I told them. That’s where we met.”

He nodded. “Sounds good.”

She pointed to the brothel. “If they hear one word about this, I’ll kill you. You understand?”

“I do.”

She relaxed a little, crossing her arms, looking to her feet. “I might be able to talk Ambre down in the dragons she’ll take for me being gone. She likes me. Plus, she has a new girl coming in.”

“Thank you.”

Her head snapped back up, meeting his eyes again. “I want a hundred.”

“A hundred?”

“Yes, a hundred. If you expect me to lie to my family, introduce a fake husband and then piss off after two nights, having not seen them since I was fourteen, then I want one hundred dragons.”

Clark looked around to see that they were truly alone. He turned back and nodded.

“All right, one hundred. Fifty before we leave. Fifty when we get back.” He stuck out his hand. “Deal?”

Keeping her eyes locked with his, she shook his hand slowly. Afterwards, they stood in the quiet night. Well, relatively quiet. The brothel patrons were still quite enthusiastic.

“When do we leave?” she asked.

“As soon as we can, once I gather everything,” said Clark. “I’ll come tomorrow and tell you more."

She nodded. Looking back at the brothel, with the ghost of a smirk, she said, “If you want back in, you’ll have to pay again.”

He waved the suggestion away. “I don’t have the energy.” He looked to her. “Renei,” he said sincerely. She looked at him coolly. “Thank you for this. I’ll never forget it.”

She snorted lightly, shaking her head. Clark scratched his head.

“I’m guessing you don’t care about my eternal gratitude.”

“You’re a fucking fool,” she said, unclasping the fur cloak and tossing it back to him. She went to go back inside, only turning at the door.

“Wear better clothes,” she said. “I don’t need you dying of cold before I get my coin.”

And with that, she entered the brothel. Clark walked back through the streets of Wintertown, an odd combination of emotions welling up inside him. Renei agreed to come and for a smaller price than he imagined would be required. That was a relief. But he was also one step closer to his first deplorable act as a human being. That was quite stressful.

It felt like his heart was fluttering and constricting all at once. He put a hand to his chest and rubbed, breathing deeply. He tried not to think how frightened Renei was at the prospect of reuniting with her family.

* * *

The following morning, Clark met with Ned. He told the Lord of Winterfell about his trip to Gulltown. He asked for a horse and cart with supplies, a lord’s general missive so he wouldn’t be harassed on the road, a signed letter corroborating the story of a maid he’d never heard of, and a grand total of one hundred and twenty dragons.

It took a little time, but he emerged before midday with all of those things promised to him. He talked to Hullen and secured a horse and cart more than big enough for two. Before dinner, after his duties, he walked down to the brothel to speak to Ambre. They spoke amiably about the forthcoming trip. Renei had already talked to her. He volunteered to write up an agreement between the two of them, guaranteeing her room back to her when she returned no later than three months.

Renei came in at the end. She was barely literate and so she took her time, but the agreement was brief. So she put her signature down and retreated back to her room to fetch the dragons to pay Ambre. Before she walked back, Clark asked for a quick word with Renei about traveling logistics and Ambre obliged. After they walked back to her room and locked the door, Clark opened his rucksack and extracted a pouch of sixty-five dragons, taking great care, so the coins didn’t jingle.

“I hope you have somewhere safe you can put this,” he said, setting it on the bed gingerly.

She approached the pouch warily, looking a little surprised. Reaching in and taking a gold piece out, she examined it.

“Half now as we agreed, plus the fifteen dragons for Ambre. The other half when we return.”

Without saying a word, she took the pouch and tied it. She went to a small chest in the room that Clark had never seen before. She unlocked it, placed the dragons in and closed it. Locking it, she returned to Clark, her face set.

“When do we leave?” she asked.

“Tomorrow morning. I have a horse and cart for us. Can you be ready?”

She nodded. He got up and went to the door.

“I’ll be here at dawn. Good night.”

He was the guest of honor at the Stark’s table that night for supper. He announced his trip as casually as he could. It both saddened and slightly cheered him to see forlorn looks on the children’s faces. He didn’t think he would be so missed. Jon became quite taciturn for the rest of the meal.

After finishing and bidding the Starks farewell, he visited the kitchens and gathered dried foods for the journey. He was sure that they would use inns more than he did for the trek up to Winterfell. Still, there could be some nights when they just couldn’t find shelter. He placed all supplies in the cart in preparation for the next morning.

He went to the yard for some light exercise. Not that he wasn’t tempted to skip it with the heavy traveling coming up, but he was a little restless. When he got to the yard though, he saw Jon striking a dummy precisely. Ned Stark was sitting to the side, watching him.

Clark stayed in the shadows, not wanting to interrupt or intrude on this private moment. He was just out of earshot, but it was clear that Jon was demonstrating for his father, proudly showing what he had accomplished. He could sense rather than see Ned’s smile from where he was standing. This continued for a while, with Jon striking and pausing to talk to Ned, Ned nodding and speaking himself.

How many moments did Jon get alone with Ned? A lord making time to see his bastard son? Not just sharing time with his siblings? Not that many probably. Between his other children, duties as a Warden and Catelyn’s insecurities, Clark wouldn’t be surprised if Ned could only steal a few moments alone with Jon every few days or so.

That didn’t stop the two of them from enjoying themselves though. Jon’s happiness could be felt across the training yard. He was still subdued, but his voice did raise a little and his eyes were brighter. Ned just drank it all in, as open as Clark had ever seen him.

Finally, Lord Stark stood, clasping Jon on the shoulder and speaking a few words to him. Jon nodded enthusiastically. Ned embraced him and walked away, leaving Jon to his dummy once again.

Ned Stark paused when he reached the outer skirts and turned to the shadows where Clark stood.

“My Lord,” said Clark, stepping into the light of a brazier.

The Lord of Winterfell glanced back to Jon, practicing in the distance before returning his gaze to Clark.

“Jon’s form looks well. His movements more fluid.” Ned almost smiled. “Ser Rodrik tells me Jon has improved mightily over the last six months. Is that Ser Rodrik’s doing or yours?”

Clark sighed. “Who told you?”

“Jon did. I asked if he’d been practicing by himself. He said he had a partner. A honest boy, that one.”

Checking to see that the coast was clear, Clark leaned closer. “I’m not telling him anything I shouldn’t. Just seemed the little man needed a friend.” He chewed his tongue gently. “To be fair, he’s the one corrupting me, teaching me to be a violent man.”

Ned’s eyebrows did the slightest of raises and Clark crumbled.

“All right, all right, bad joke,” he mumbled, turning back to Jon, who was still striking with his sword. “Does he remind you of his mother?”

He wondered if he presumed too much with that remark, but Ned didn’t seem offended. Just pensive.

“He does.” He lowered his voice. “Less so now that Arya’s learned to walk.”

Clark laughed. “I imagine.”

“Are you prepared to leave tomorrow?” Ned’s tone turned serious immediately.

“Just my clothes before bed. All else is ready.”

“You’re off to kill a man in cold blood,” Ned muttered.

There was no sugar-coating this. Not to Ned Stark. “I am.”

“And you’re absolutely sure that this is necessary.”

Clark nodded. “I am. Without a doubt.”

Ned sighed. “Then good luck. I won’t see you off in the morning. You’re just off to the Riverlands to inspect some tomes for a possible purchase.”

“Your dragons will be put to good use,” said Clark. “Not that anyone will never know it. Sorry about that.”

“I’ll find some excuse,” said Ned. “Good night, Tiresias…”

“Lord Stark,” interrupted Clark. “I’m sorry, but…in case, I fuck it all up and fail, I wanted…I wanted to say stay in the North. Keep your family and men in the North. That’s where your strength is.”

Ned looked a little bewildered, but nodded. Maybe he was getting used to vague warnings.

“All right,” he said.

“Are you going to the Wall soon?” asked Clark.

Lord Stark shook his head. “Not yet. We’re seeing to increase food production first, so the farmers are prepared to go come the first planting. I won’t be going to the Wall for another six months.”

Clark swallowed. “Well…if I’m not back by that time…there was a wildling man north of the Wall, named Craster. This man should be killed as soon as possible.”

Ned went still. “Why?”

_Besides the fact that this man rapes his own daughters?_

“It’s a little fantastic…but the longer that Craster lives, the stronger the Army of the Dead will become. Whatever arrangement the Night Watch has with Craster, it isn’t worth it. They should end it and him all together.”

Ned took a moment before nodding. “I’ll pass on the message. Is there anything else you wish, in case you die horribly?”

Clark laughed. “Just thank you for having me.” He stuck out his hand. “I’ll see you in two months.”

Ned shook it. “Good luck, Tiresias.”

Lord Stark exited the training yard, leaving Clark alone with a very focused Jon Snow hitting a dummy. He didn’t even notice the librarian until Clark was right behind him.

“You shouldn’t let your enemy sneak up on you so easily.” Clark patted his shoulder and went to get a practice sword.

“How long are you going to be away?” Jon’s voice was calm, but he could hear a little anxiety under it.

“Only two months, possibly three,” he said, trying to sound casual. He selected his favorite and went to get in position. “I’m leaving very early in the morning, so we will only have a short spar tonight. Ready?” He prepared for a strike, but relaxed when he saw Jon’s face.

“I’m going to inspect some tomes, Jon. I’m not sailing to the end of the world. And it won’t be the last trip I’ll take either.”

Jon nodded, his brave face on. Clark sighed and knelt in front of him.

“I’m going to miss your lessons while I’m away. I won’t have a lot of time to practice.” He placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “But do you know who love some sword lessons?”

His answer was a blank look and Clark resisted the urge to chuckle.

“I’ll give you a hint. She follows you everywhere.”

Jon’s eyes went wide. “I can’t teach Arya,” he muttered, looking around. “I would get into so much trouble.”

“Well, don’t tell anyone then. I won’t.” Sensing that wouldn’t be enough, he tried again. “Jon, your sister adores you and she would love a chance to learn from you. You’re a great teacher. Who knows? She could grow to be the greatest warrior in the North.”

“I’m just a child…”

“Well, Arya’s a child too. Even smaller than you. Sounds perfect.”

He stood up at that point. Jon’s eyes followed him.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

Clark nodded. “Aye, I am.”

“And you’re coming back?”

“Barring any tragic accident, I promise to return. And when I do, I want to make up for the time I lost. Does that sound all right?”

Jon nodded resolutely. Clark stood and took his position.

“One short spar. Make it count, Jon.”

The clashes of the practice swords echoed throughout the yard. Clark wouldn’t be surprised if they were heard all the way to the godswood. He couldn’t help but think the next time he raised a blade; it would probably be for real.

* * *

The streets of Wintertown were dead silent with just the hint of dawn beginning to break in the east. The only sounds were the roll of the cart wheel and the hooves of the horse leading. Clark thanked Cullen silently, for showing him how to handle such a vehicle.

As he neared the brothel, he heard the last remnants of the night finally winding down. He halted the cart and climbed down, heading for the door. Two house guards stumbled out. Clark stepped out of their way, as they carried themselves past. He doubted they even noticed him. Ambre came to the door, presumably to lock up when she saw Clark.

“Morning, Tiresias. She’s almost ready. I’ll call her. Come on in.”

Clark came in, keeping near the doorway. No one approached him. He assumed that they all knew Renei was hitching a ride today. Most of the girls were yawning and heading to sleep. He nodded politely as they passed.

A young girl with red hair just came out, throwing a robe over herself. She barely looked sixteen. Clark averted his eyes, but she called to him.

“We’re closed now,” she said. “You’ll have to come back tonight.”

“I’m not a customer.”

He heard her come closer.

“You’re the one taking Renei down the Kingsroad?”

“Aye,” said Clark, looking at her. He did a double take.

_Is this who I think this is?_

“What?” she said, not too impatiently. Clark shook his head.

“You look familiar, is all.”

She shrugged. “Grew up around here. Maybe you saw me in town.” She smiled. “What’s your name?”

Automatically, Clark stuck out his hand. “Tiresias.”

She shook his hand, looking bemused. “You work at the castle, right?”

“I’m the librarian.”

“That’s lovely.” she said. “I’m Ros.”

Clark felt his hand tremble and he was sure Ros felt it too. However, judging from the look on her face, she misinterpreted it. Her tired smile took a teasing quality. He released her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Ros.”

“Likewise,” she said. “When you come back to Winterfell, if you want someone different for a change, I’ll be right here.”

Clark forced a smile. “Maybe.”

Not a moment too soon, Renei entered from the corridor with a bag. She was wearing a modest dress and more bundled than Clark had ever seen her. Ambre followed her.

“Morning,” said Clark.

Renei ignored him, walking to the door and exiting. Clark looked to Ambre.

“Don’t mind her,” Ambre said, with a wave of her hand. “She’s always grumpy in the morning.”

Clark nodded. “Right. Goodbye, Ambre. Ros.”

“Safe travels, Tiresias. Take good care of our girl,” said Ambre, as Ros gave a light wave.

“I will,” Clark promised, before exiting and walking to his transport. Renei was already seated in the passenger seat, her bag in the back with the rest. Clark climbed aboard and grabbed a blanket from the back.

“Here,” he said, offering it to Renei, who took it immediately, wrapping herself tightly against the morning chill. He took a hold of the reins.

“You ready?” he asked. Renei nodded. “All right.” He clicked his tongue and the horse began to walk. They proceeded a little slowly through the town. However, once they were out and onto the Kingsroad, the horse picked up some speed and they were off.

The sun was peering brightly now over the horizon.

“My name is Clare,” said Renei, over the noise of the cart.

“What?” said Clark.

“When we get to White Harbor, and then to Gulltown, you’ll have to call me by my real name. It’s Clare.”

She did not look happy to reveal that information.

“All right,” said Clark. “It’s good to meet you Clare.”

“Not before White Harbor. I’m still Renei now. I’ll always be Renei here. Even to you.”

Clark took a moment to scratch his ear before responding.

“Well, it’ll be good to meet Clare at White Harbor then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments, guys!
> 
> See you next Monday for Gulltown!


	12. Chapter Twelve

Clark ran a hand over his beard, or whatever he could grow in the past three weeks. It wasn’t enough to fool a close look, but he figured he looked different enough. He was above deck on their small ship, The Bottom Eel, trying to feel the last bit of sea wind before they docked. The ship was pulling into the natural harbor of Gulltown, the city laid out behind. The stonework wasn’t as bright as White Harbor, but it was older. The First Men built this place, according to what he read.

He felt a movement to his right. Renei had joined him at the railing, looking out at her former home. There was no melancholy or regret in her face. Her eyes seemed to shine a little brighter actually.

“Do you recognize it?” asked Clark, his voice muted.

She snorted. “I was fourteen when I left. Not two. Course I recognize it.”

“Good.”

She checked their surroundings. The sailors were running about, preparing the ship to dock and very disinterested in the two travelers. She leaned against the railing, lowering her voice to match his. “You wanted to find the customs house?”

Clark nodded.

“Well, make sure you don’t look too excited. It’s the one passing right in front of us.”

Looking as casually as he could, Clark saw a great stone building ahead of them across the docks. It covered the width of the stone walkway, with the front side of the building blending seamlessly into the sea wall. Traders and travelers would enter from the docks into one of two archways, declare their merchandise and pass through to the rest of the stone harbor walkway which opened up to the town.

“Is the man you’re looking for in there?” Renei murmured.

“I don’t know for certain.”

“What did he do to you?”

“He has something that was stolen from me. He bought it from the thief.”

Renei tucked a strand of hair under her head scarf. “What was stolen?”

“Something from my mother.” Clark delivered the line with a gentle, yet firm dismissal he’d practiced beforehand. It worked too. Renei looked back toward the approaching dock without another word. He breathed easily. Compared to her, he was a terrible liar.

Back in White Harbor, upon learning from the captain that he only had one available cabin and sensing that he wouldn’t give it to an unmarried couple, Renei, without blinking an eye, introduced Clark and herself as Garrel and Clare Batler. She said it effortlessly, affecting the same demure demeanor Clark had seen from the maids at Winterfell. She even took his hand easily, as though they’ve been holding hands for years. Whether or not the performance truly worked, the captain let them onboard, having heard what he needed to hear.

When they were alone, as soon as the cabin door closed, Clark rounded on Renei.

“Is there anything else you’d care to tell me about myself so I won’t have to hear it first when everyone else does?” he whispered.

She rolled her eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to be noticed. You need a common name right when you enter the boat that will take you to the city where you don’t want to be noticed. It starts here, you idiot. I thought that was your plan. I thought you didn’t speak so they wouldn’t hear the accent. Did you not?”

Clark sighed. “Aye,” he admitted. “I didn’t.”

“Well, I’d keep being a mute if I were you. No strange name. No strange voice. Don’t need to talk to be the town scribe.”

“Town scribe?”

She placed her bag down next to the bed. “Or whatever new trade you want. Just something that will keep a curious man away from the library or whorehouse in the future.”

Clark didn’t have a response to this and she dropped the conversation. They didn’t say another word to each other until after supper when they were preparing for the night. In fact, Clark took Renei’s advice to heart and didn’t speak to anyone. She was right. He noticed his voice had been taking on Northern hints lately, but it was still disconcerting to anyone who heard him speak for the first time. They didn’t need the attention.

He took one of the pillows and tossed it to the cabin floor. Renei stared at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you the bed,” Clark said quietly, sitting down and taking off his boots. He didn’t trust that these walls were soundproof.

She shook her head disbelievingly. “Get in.”

Clark stood, placing his boots to the side. “I told you I don’t need you for a bedwarmer.”

Renei rolled her eyes. “We’re not going to fuck. But you’re not going to able to sleep on the floor. It’s too hard. I don’t need you more pissy cause you didn’t sleep. Now, quit being stupid and get in.”

He hesitated, giving just enough space for Renei to sigh.

“Look,” she said. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m the one who needs a bedwarmer. These blankets are thin and I’m freezing. So get in.”

Suppressing both annoyance and a mild amusement, Clark removed his trousers and got into bed. Renei curled against him. Not another word was said. True to their agreement, they didn’t have sex that night or any other night on the voyage. They didn’t even talk much.

_Maybe we really are like an old married couple_, thought Clark, more than once during the trip.

The ship docked and they were the first passengers down the gang plank. Renei had spoken to the captain yesterday and learned he was shipping out of Gulltown back to White Harbor the day after tomorrow. They paid in advance for the cabin again, getting his written guarantee for it.

They traversed up the dock, Clark pulling his hood up to keep eyes off, but nobody seemed to care. The merchants, sailors and fishermen among others were too busy going about their business. In fact, it was actually Clark who couldn’t stop staring at them. He grew up near a fishing town, but most of the business was belly up by the time he was born. Not this place. Gulltown wasn’t the biggest port city in the Vale for nothing. They weren’t even in the city yet. The market place would be extraordinary.

Luckily he had Renei’s presence to keep him moving. She strode right past everything that was fascinating and he kept step. They ventured from the dock onto the stone walkway and headed towards the customs house. There was a huge line of people with carts of valuables. Renei linked her arm through his.

“That’s for merchants and traders,” she said, steering him away from it. “There’s another line for travelers.”

They walked past the long line to the much shorter one. They stopped right behind the first black person Clark had seen in nearly a year. He was dressed like he was from one of the Free Cities. In front of him was a fat man in silk and furs. Then there was a couple of sellswords. That was it. Clark supposed there wasn’t much traveling for leisure in this time.

The sellswords were producing a contract for the inspecting officer. They were hired by some cloth merchant as he would be going through the mountain road when it opened the following week for travel. Protection from the mountain clans. After swearing that they had no ill intent in the city itself, they were let through.

As the fat man stepped forward, Clark took a good look. Inspectors uncovered baskets, opened caskets of goods, checking to see if they were declared correctly. He heard one merchant objecting quite viciously to the tariff imposed on his produce.

“You got to be fucking joking!”

“I am not joking, and if you don’t adjust your tone or curb your language, you will not proceed into Gulltown even with the tariff,” said the customs officer severely.

The merchant slammed his hands down on the table and whispered furiously, though Clark could still hear…

“It has risen twice this year already!”

“Tariffs rise and fall due to unpredictable circumstances. We’re in the middle of winter…”

“Winter is almost gone! The mountain road will be open next week! You expect me to believe that horseshit? In Gulltown? Where you Valemen are able to trade despite ice storms? Your harbor doesn’t freeze over!”

“If you don’t control your conduct, I’ll be forced to bar your entry…”

“I want to speak to the head officer. Immediately.”

The customs officer sighed. “That won’t help you.”

“Well, you certainly not going to! If Lord Baelish is going to raise the tariff even more this year, I want to speak to him! Man to man!”

Clark’s heart began to race. He turned around, thankful that the confrontation was drawing multiple curious eyes, not just his own. He heard the customs officer sigh and leave for the stone stairwell.

He felt Renei’s hand tug his arm. The fat man had been waved on and the Essosi was now being questioned. They moved forward. He tried to keep calm and his eyes averted, keeping his ear open for that oily accent…

“What seems to be the trouble, my good man?”

And there it is…

His hands were trembling and he clenched and unclenched them to stop it.

“The trouble, Lord Baelish, is this damn tariff!” said the angry merchant. “This is the third time in the last year it’s been raised.”

Clark made sure he was absolutely calm before raising his head and looking toward the future Master of Coin.

Petyr Baelish was missing the silver in his hair, his clothes not quite as fine, his face was thinner than he remembered. However it was still the same Littlefinger. He had the goatee, the sycophant smile and the same piercing eyes.

“I’m aware of that, my friend,” he said. “I assure you I’ve kept it as low as possible for as long as I can, but now it is unavoidable. The tariff you see this morning is the original amount the Lords of the Vale wished to impose from the start of the year. However I persuaded them to let me increase the tariff price gradually as to not disrupt your trade. I’ve saved you as much coin as I was able to this year, but alas the time is nigh and the full tariff must be paid.”

“Horseshit, Lord Baelish.” Clark saw the merchant resisting the urge to strike Littlefinger. “The tariffs were never this high, not even in the worse times. Is the Vale even in need of an increased tariff?”

“There was just a rebellion, my good man.”

“On the other side of the fucking kingdom! Gulltown still looks intact. So do the rest of the ports down the Narrow Sea. I’m edged to leave your city and your fucking tariff and sell there instead!”

“A right you certainly have,” said Littlefinger, not losing one bit of his smile. “I wish you fortune, my friend, in selling your goods in the other port cities of the Vale and where else. Is there another market nearby as big as Gulltown’s, where you could sell so much in one place? Before your produce is spoiled? Perhaps you could sell bit by bit at every village along the coast.”

The merchant looked furious but said nothing. Littlefinger placed his hand on his shoulder, dropping his voice. Clark had to strain to hear it.

“I understand that an unforeseen cost is never welcomed and you are a regular trader to Gulltown, so I will lower your tariff this time. Not to the previous price, of course. Just enough to soften the unwelcome news. Will that be satisfactory, my good man?”

Clark felt a pull on his arm from Renei. The Essosi man was walking away and it was their turn. They moved forward to the inspector at his desk. With a great reluctance, Clark pulled away from Littlefinger. He had confirmation that he was here. Now he had to get into the city itself.

“Good morning, inspector,” Renei said, warm as a saint.

The inspector nodded. “Morning, madam. What are your names and what business have you in Gulltown?”

“My name is Clare Batler. I’m visiting my mother and family, introducing them to my new husband, Garrel Batler.”

Clark nodded. The inspector looked from Renei to him.

“Does he not speak?”

“Unfortunately not, inspector. He’s mute.”

Waiting until the inspector’s eyes went back to Renei, Clark glanced back at Littlefinger, shaking the hand of the merchant, who looked like he had swallowed a whole lemon.

“Your trades?” asked the inspector.

“He’s a town scribe and I’m a maid at Winterfell. Lady Stark was kind enough to let me visit my family for a couple nights. I have a letter from her lord husband vouching for me.”

Renei pulled the letter from her dress and handed it to the inspector. He barely read it, just glancing at the words.

“Are you staying in Gulltown?”

“Nay, inspector. We plan to be out after two nights on the same ship back North. The Bottom Eel.”

Taking one final look back, Clark saw Littlefinger speaking to the customs officer handling the merchant. He patted his shoulder and strode off, up into the stone stairwell.

The inspector folded the letter. “All the way from Winterfell to Gulltown for two nights?”

“Aye, inspector. I only got permission to be away for six sennights. We travel fast on the road but we’re pushing our luck already. Two nights is all we could manage.”

The inspector handed the letter back to Renei. “Would you open your bags, madam? You and your husband?”

Renei smiled. “Of course.” They placed the bags on top of the table and opened them. The inspector went through them quickly, taking a little more time with Clark’s bag. Finally he pulled back, sitting back down.

“That’s fine. Go ahead.”

They exited through the archway, walking along the stone walkway, not daring to stop until they were on the other side of the harbor. Both stopped at the end, taking a moment to breathe freely.

Renei mentioned an old smokehouse that she used to frequent as a child, right around the corner. It was still there, though no one recognized her, much to their mutual relief. After purchasing some smoked salmon, they sat on the edge of the harbor, their feet hanging above the water. The customs house was across from them.

Clark had difficulty swallowing and washed some fish down with water. “The two archways are on the first level. What’s above?”

“Quarters for the inspectors. The chancery for them and the officers.” Renei tossed some salmon skin into the harbor. A seagull flew down immediately and snatched it. Clark continued to look at the customs house, following the wall of the house as it blended into the harbor wall. The second floor had a few windows, all too skinny. The floor above, the top level, had much larger windows.

“What’s on the third floor?”

“That’s for the head customs officer. His quarters. His office.” She sucked her fingers. “Is he the one who has your stolen mystery?”

Clark shrugged.

“Well, if he has it, it’ll be in there,” Renei said, reaching for the skin. She took a long draught and stood. “Are you done here? Cause if you are, we should get going.”

“I want to take a walk along the city wall.”

He saw her biting down a question as he got to his feet and raised his hood. They walked out of the harbor and through the marketplace. It was bigger than the market in Wintertown and even the one in Fairmarket. He and Renei were bombarded on all sides by merchants, with colorful fabrics, spices, fruits and so much more.

Clark kept his hood and his face forward, keeping step with Renei. Though he was very tempted to stop for plums and bloodoranges from Dorne. He hoped that every one of these merchants who called for his patronage quickly forgot him and moved to the next pedestrian. That no one would recall his face.

Despite being the major port in the Vale and the largest city in Westeros that Clark had seen so far, the Northern Gate was an easy walk for them. When they came within sight of the gate, Clark turned into an alley, with Renei following him.

“What?” she asked.

He raised his hand, asking her to wait. There was a group of men accompanying a covered cart coming up the street. After they passed the alley, Clark fell in behind them. He heard Renei shadow him.

They trailed behind the group of men until they reached the gate. As the city guard took notice of the cart, Clark took Renei’s arm and stepped away, walking quickly to their right along the city wall.

Neither said a word until they were out of sight, when Renei took her arm from Clark’s hand.

“The fuck was that all about?” she said.

“I don’t want the city guard to notice us creeping along the wall,” Clark muttered. “The first time they see us should when we’re clearly leaving the city.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. How long do you want to walk? There’s nothing here.”

Clark’s eyes scanned the walls. “Not too long,” he said. “Could we slow down a little, please?”

Her retort was inaudible, but she did slow her pace. They meandered along, Clark taking furtive looks, trying to see options.

The wall wasn’t quite as tall as Winterfell’s. Renei had told him that the main defense of Gulltown was focused on the Western Gate, with taller, thicker walls for defense against the mountain clans from the high road. Not that any mountain clan had actually ventured near Gulltown in the last few hundred years, but that worked for him regardless. The wall here was not a difficult climb. Patrols had far gaps in between. And no one would be watching for nefarious activity from the north. Only things beyond those gates were peasants and Runestone.

He declared himself satisfied and they turned back to the gate. Clark gave Renei a few instructions and fell silent as they approached.

The guards had no initial interest in two poor travelers exiting the city, but Renei put her best modest self forward and addressed the younger one.

“Good afternoon, soldier” she said, smiling very kindly.

The young man blushed and nodded. His partner looked mildly amused. Both of them didn’t look once at Clark.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” said the young guard. “How can I…how can we help you?”

“Just a question, really. My husband and I are scheduled to leave on an early morning boat the day after tomorrow. If we arrive the morning of, before dawn, will the gate be open to let us through, or will we have to stay in Gulltown the night before? We want to stay with my family for as much time as possible. But we also don’t want to miss our boat.”

Though his blushing did not abate, the young guard answered readily.

“The gates close at sunset and open at sunrise, ma’am. But there’s always two guards present who can easily open the gate for you and your husband. You two can stay both nights with your family and be all right arriving here before sunrise. I can even inform the morning guard so they know to expect you.”

Renei reached forward and patted his hand, curled around his spear. “We would appreciate that. Thank you, soldier.” She curled her arm through Clark’s. “We’ll be off now. Have a pleasant evening.”

“You as well, ma’am. Evening, I mean.” The guard had such an infectious smile. It was all Clark could do to keep a straight face. He figured the older guard was having the same difficulty as well, but he didn’t turn to check. He felt Renei give one last wave to the soldier as they walked on.

They walked to the edge of the forest when Clark stopped.

“Put your bag on the ground and go through it.”

Renei stared. “What? Why?”

“Pretend you forgot something and you’re looking for it. I need two minutes.”

She only took one more second before swinging her bag around and onto the ground. “Fucking hell,” she grumbled, but she crouched down and began to rifle through it.

Clark looked back to the city and along the wall, scanning the same section that Renei and he recently walked by on the other side. He saw that the guards were looking toward them. He gave a short wave which the young guard returned, before scanning the wall one more time.

“Are you done?” asked Renei, from the ground.

“Yes,” he said, looking down at her.

“Good.” She reached up and held up her purse, in sight of all who were still watching them. Placing it back in her bag, she stood.

“Now can I go and see my fucking family?”

Clark nodded and began walking. Their journey was not difficult at all. Maybe it was because the road led straight to Runestone and Lord Royce insisted on it, but the road was well maintained. The forest opened up after a mile or so, leaving them to hike alongside a river coming down from the mountains.

Renei was very quiet, which wasn’t unusual for her. She had barely said a word to him during their entire journey. Partly out of anger. Partly out of fear. He could sense her nerves increasing as they neared her family. She left years ago, feeling that she would never see them again. He wondered how many of the girls in that Wintertown brothel had family that they could never return to. If they had any family at all.

Clouds covered the sky, turning the sunny day into an overcast one. Renei shivered.

“Are you cold?” asked Clark.

“If it means you ask no more questions, then yes, I’m cold.”

He didn’t respond or say anything else for the rest of the walk. Finally, at a bend in the road, she stopped.

“It’s just around there. Or should be at least.”

Clark waited, as Renei took a deep breath.

“All right. Fuck it all.” She placed her arm through Clark’s and they walked forward, turning the bend.

Before them was a mill and a small cottage attached to it. A stout woman sat outside the house, shelling peas. Her dark hair was tinged with grey streaks. Clark felt Renei stiffen, but she kept walking. As they got off the path and walked toward the cottage, the stout woman looked up.

“Afternoon,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Can I help yeh?”

Renei extracted her arm and moved forward.

“Hello mum,” she said quietly.

The woman stilled; her hands frozen with the pea shell. She dropped it in the basket and stood, staring at Renei.

“Clare?”

Renei nodded. “Aye,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’ve come to visit.”

Nobody moved for a beat, before her mother strode forward and hugged her fiercely, Renei reciprocating immediately.

“Oh gods, Clare, you’re home,” the mother moaned, as an enormous smile spread across her face. Renei gave her a squeeze before letting go.

“Only for a couple nights, Mum. I don’t have much time, but I wanted you to meet my husband.”

“Husband?” The mother’s eyes found him at last. Clark walked forward and extended his hand. She shook it, in a daze.

“New husband? Clare, this…this is your husband?” she said, looking back and forth between the two.

“Aye, his name is Garrel Batler. That’s my new name now. He’s a town scribe.” She placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “He’s also a mute.”

Her mother looked at her surprised. “A mute?”

“Aye, but don’t let that keep yeh from talking to him. Doesn’t stop me. He can hear perfectly and he makes good coin. He’s kind, mum.” She stepped between them. “Garrel, meet my mother, Marya.”

The surprise from Marya’s face faded instantly and warmed as she regarded them. “Well, Garrel, welcome to the family! It’s so good to meet you. Thank you for escorting my daughter home.”

Clark nodded, trying to keep his breathing steady. This was so much more awkward than he had anticipated…

He found himself being led into the cottage to sit down at the table. Renei remained standing as Marya stepped up on the stairs and hollered into the attic.

“Anna! Come on down. Your sister’s come home to visit!”

Footsteps pounded the ceiling as Anna came rushing down. She looked thirteen or so, with the same curly, raven hair. When she saw Renei, she stopped short, staring at her. Renei strode forward and hugged her and after a second, Anna hugged her back.

The next hour or so was a blur to Clark. Renei’s last family member, her brother, a lanky raven-haired fifteen-year-old named Lucas, came bounding in from the mill where he had been working. Both Lucas and Anna took right to Clark, his apparent muteness not a burden for them at all. They asked him yes or no questions and proceeded to embarrass Renei with memories that she swore they were too young to remember. They even showed him the mill, which was restored after Renei left.

Afterwards, Anna went to prepare supper and Lucas and Renei joined her, leaving him alone with the mother.

“It was truly Clare who saved us from ruin,” said Marya, as she patted the wheel in the river. She turned back to Clark, who stood pensively listening. Renei was in the cottage with her brother and sister.

“I don’t know how much Clare told you about what happened. My husband and I lived in this place for years. It was his family’s. They were all millers, but his father had left the place in ill repute and condition. My husband…his passing was ill-timed. All he saved to repair the mill was now for us to survive with no income in the house. Lucas was too young and I couldn’t look after them if I worked. Clare left to earn coin. Months went by and I thought she’d just run off.”

She laughed dryly. “I didn’t blame her. I knew it was a great burden. But she sent back coin. More coin than I ever expected, had I expected anything.

“I learned later when she wrote, that she’d convinced Lady Stark to give her an advance on her wages. She sent most of it to us. I don’t know what she lived on, but it saved us. Allowed us to keep our home, repair the mill. When Lucas was a young man and I could finally work, we began to mill ourselves. It took time to build, but we’re finally living on our own. All thanks to Clare.

“She still sends us coin. I don’t know why. I’ve asked her not to.” She smiled at Clark. “Maybe as a husband, you can put your foot down.”

Clark raised his eyebrows at that.

Marya laughed. “I suppose not. Come on, we should go help.”

It was nearly dark as they returned to the cottage. Renei was sitting at the table with Lucas, while Anna was finishing the potato stew. She regaled them all with tales of the Stark household and Winterfell in general, including details that she should not have been privy to. Renei must have questioned every Winterfell worker and soldier that came her way. Gathering anything to sell her story.

Clark sat next to her and remained quiet. They ate well that night, with the stew, peas and fresh warm bread. Renei laughed and smiled for the whole night. He wondered how much of it was real. Most or all of it? As the evening progressed, he was tempted to say all. However, there was moments that brought him back to reality; an affectionate squeeze on his leg, the way she’d lean into him as she laughed, and the look of love she gave when she told the story of how they first met.

It was a masterful performance. He could see fear in her eyes occasionally, but only because he knew the truth.

She knew her limitations too. She answered questions and spoke of her work as a maid, but turned the conversation around on Lucas and Anna frequently. Clark learned more about her family than he ever expected to, how Lucas had a sweetheart in town who worked in a bakery and how Anna liked to sing. How Marya spent the first few years without her Clare…

The conversation lasted a while, and while Clark was enjoying it, he knew he had a job to do. He felt a yawn coming and did nothing to suppress it.

“Are you tired, Garrel?” said Marya. Clark nodded. “Well, you should head to bed at once. You two will be here for another day. You can sleep in my bed upstairs. Lucas and Anna are up there as well.”

“Where are you going to sleep, Mum?” asked Anna.

“I can sleep down here, lamb. I’ve done it before…”

“Mum,” said Renei. “You should stay in your bed. Garrel and I…we’d like to sleep in the mill.”

Clark was relieved. She remembered.

“Whatever for, Clare?” said Marya.

Renei gripped Clark’s hand. “We just want a bit more privacy. We’re trying, is all. I mean, I…” She smiled in embarrassment, something Clark had never seen before. “This time of the month’s the best for me, at least that’s what the maester says…”

“Oh, oh!” said Marya, going a little red in the face but looking very happy for them. Lucas seemed a little confused. “Of course, Clare. You and Garrel should…but the wheel, lamb. Won’t it be too loud to sleep after?”

Renei shook her head. “Not at all. Besides we don’t want it too quiet, do we? Lest Lucas and Anna hear us in the night…”

Lucas looked mortified and begged his sister to stop, while Anna and Marya started laughing. Clark forced himself to smile.

Soon after, Clark brought a candle into the mill and over to where Renei laid. There was a thin pad that Lucas brought over, averting eye contact as he said goodnight. That with some blankets and two pillows that Anna and Marya insisted they take and they had a perfectly good bed for two nights. Her family bade them goodnight and went back to the house.

Setting the candle down, Clark lowered his trousers. The belt was wrapped around his thigh, along with the sheathed knife. He removed the belt, pulled his trousers back up and wrapped the belt around his waist. Then he dug into his pack. Toward the bottom, he had placed the dark navy cloak he’d purchased in Fairmarket over a year ago. The inspector hadn’t gone near it in his search.

Renei laid with her back toward him. She didn’t make a sound. He blew out the candle and sat on the pad next to her, waiting. How long would her family take to fall asleep? He estimated at least a half hour went by before he got up and went to the door. Inching it open, he looked toward the house. No candles burned upstairs and the glow from the dying embers in the kitchen revealed no movement. It seemed that no one was awake.

He looked back toward to Renei, who laid still. Whether she was asleep or not, he didn’t bother to check. The wheel creaked a little every few seconds. He timed it, waited for the opportune moment and then opened the door, with the wheel masking his exit. Closing the door behind him, he walked quietly but quickly. The river seemed louder at night. It covered his footsteps as he came upon the path, striding south for Gulltown.

The overcast day had bled into a cloudy night. There was no moon to light his path and the stars were few and far between. He proceeded as quickly as he could, but he was a lone traveler at night. He couldn’t be too careful.

Fortunately, three miles on a proven path is not a horrible distance. After a little more than an hour, he saw Gulltown in the distance, with the torches at the northern gate as a beacon. He stopped and went straight into the woods. He gave thanks for the clouded night, certain that no guard could see him at this distance. Progressing through the woods, he stepped carefully, becoming silent in his approach. He was tempted to leave the cloak, but he was managing it well enough.

When he came to the edge of the forest, he looked over to the guards. They weren’t even looking toward the path. Just conversing easily with each other. Clark went a little further along the edge, looking for the spot he saw earlier…

There it was. Straight ahead with enough rough spots for climbing, it was about two hundred feet east of the gate. That spot also coincided with a good landing spot on the other side. At least if his estimations were correct…

He gave one last check to the guards and snuck across the grass, keeping low. He reached the wall and stretched himself across it, trying to calm himself. He was trembling, his breath coming in nervous hitches.

_In on four…hold for four…out for four…come on Tiresias, breathe…_

Feeling his chest loosen, he turned his ear toward the northern gate. The guards were still chatting at the gate, their voices indiscernible. However, the wall curved and he was out of their sight. Turning toward the stone, he gripped his first ledge.

_Climbing on a moonless night. All right, let’s go._

It was actually easier than he anticipated. He’d picked a good spot and even with the unnatural boost in his abilities, the conditioning and exercise for the past several months were the main factors in scaling the wall. The hardest part was keeping quiet and more than once, he suspected that he kicked the wall too hard getting a footing. But no one came from the gate.

Upon reaching the top, Clark pulled his head above the edge and looked around. No patrols in sight. He pulled the rest of himself over quickly and steadied. He was still panting slightly, when he headed to the other side and looked down. The street was empty. A single lantern was hanging in the window of a building down the way. It illuminated the wall enough for him to see a way down. Not wasting any time, he swung over and scurried down, jumping the last ten feet, landing softly.

He made his way down to the harbor, keeping to the side streets, marking his progress by the main road he and Renei took that afternoon. As he neared the harbor, his way became more crowded, even in the side streets. Sailors, laborers and off-duty soldiers were drinking and whoring, their night just beginning. It was a strenuous task to avoid them. In one instance, he had no cover from an approaching group of loud, singing seamen. His knife was hidden behind his back and he affected a stumble, becoming a fellow drunk as opposed to a hooded, malevolent stranger. It must have worked. He passed by the group, receiving a cheery pat on the back from one of them.

The stone walkway surrounding the harbor was empty. At least, all who were staying by the waterfront were indoors. In their taverns, their inns, their boats. It was still quite cold, the winter not quite over yet. Breathing in the cool air, Clark took the side streets again, not wishing to stride out in the open. The moon may be covered, but light from the establishments faintly illuminated the stone walk.

Clark stopped at a corner and peered around. He was fifty feet from his goal, the stone face of the customs house that plunged straight down into the harbor. The archways were gated and bolted. The second floor of the customs office was aglow and filled with conversation. Perhaps not as boisterous as the taverns, but people were still awake there. No one seemed to be at the windows though…

Checking the opposite way for any onlookers, Clark strode quickly to the stone wall. He reached it and groped the other side for a hook. He found one for his hand, then his foot…then for his other hand. Gripping his ledges tightly, he swung himself to the stone face, from the stone walkway, finding a ledge for his remaining foot. Hanging out of sight above the water.

Well, mostly out of sight, but no one was walking down the edges of the harbor at the moment. He breathed easily, rested for a few seconds on the wall, before beginning to boulder to his right. There were two windows on the top floor. He just had to reach the first one. When he was far enough along, he began to scale the building. He reached the second floor, resisting the urge to use the windows as ledges. He kept far enough away from them, even though they didn’t look like they could open. He hoped that the people inside didn’t hear him scurrying on the stone.

Looking up, he cursed silently. He was off from his mark by a few feet. It took longer than he wanted and he began to feel the strain in his arms. However he corrected his course before his arms started shaking and continued up.

His fingers gripped the ledge of the window. Even though it was dark from the inside, he refused to relax. He couldn’t screw this up now. He pulled himself up and peered in. It was dark, but it didn’t seem like a bedroom. There was a desk and chairs with several bookcases. Petyr’s office…

Clark pulled himself onto the ledge. It was wide enough for him to sit and he panted in relief, looking down at the water below. His heart was pounding. Three seconds went by before he shook himself. Petyr could be back at any moment. He couldn’t delay.

The window was locked on the inside by some metal latch. Clark gave it a slight push and it gave a little. There was a slight gap between the window and the frame.

He unsheathed his knife and placed it in between that gap, dull edge up. It was a little snug but it got in far enough and he could place it right under the latch. Clark breathed and lifted the knife slowly, with a little pressure.

The latch moved slightly, but it was still caught. He added a bit more pressure, careful not to lose his balance on the ledge.

The extra pressure did it. The latch lifted and Clark had to catch his knife from going too far up. He tried pressing the window in to no available. It would need to swing out. He shifted himself as much to the edge as he dared and tried to get some grip on the window to pull out. It took a few tries, but finally he was able to get the window open enough to move his whole hand in and swing it open.

He assumed that since no one came from the other room that he was safe. He crawled in from the ledge, planting his feet firmly on the office floor. He took deep breaths. It seemed a whole night had gone by since he was securely grounded. After that slight elation, he pulled the window shut and latched it again. Then he turned to observe the office.

The lack of moonlight didn’t deter him. Perhaps he was used to the dark. Maybe improved sight was another one of his dormant abilities. He didn’t pause to ponder it further. He could see that there was another door ajar; the room which the second window looked into.

Going to the door, he pressed his ear against the gap. No snoring, no breathing from anyone. He sniffed. No lingering smoke from an extinguished candle or fire. Finally he opened the door to confirm what he already suspected. No one was here.

For a man who dreamed to sit on the Iron Thorne one day and bring ruin upon his enemies, his beginnings were humble enough. Just a wardrobe, chest, with a small mirror and a washing basin on a table by the window. The only gregarious thing in the room was the enormous bed. A little large for an unmarried man. Though he supposed Petyr was still a lord. It was also raised a little too high for his liking.

Closing the door to the spot where it was previously ajar, Clark stood trying to decide how to do this. His knife was still in his hand. The space behind the door looked tempting. He went to stand there, raising the knife, holding for a few seconds before relaxing.

_Okay. This is it. This is the spot. He’ll come in. I’ll stab. Go for the throat first so he can’t yell. Okay. Okay…_

He didn’t know how long he continued to stand there, though probably not more than for a few minutes. It was unnerving and he began to entertain thoughts like Petyr would be elsewhere all night. Maybe this isn’t really his bedroom. Maybe…

His thoughts froze as he heard footsteps coming up the hall, toward the office door. More than one pair.

Without thinking about it, he crossed to the bed and crawled under it. A key was inserted into the lock. He scooted toward the head of the bed, where he wouldn’t be seen from above. He pulled his cloak to him just as the office door opened. Looking at the partly closed door, he saw dim candle light spill through the gap.

“Take this and light the two candles in there,” said Petyr, his oily voice combined with a desk drawer being unlocked and opened.

The door to the office opened with a creak and Clark saw a blue dress illuminated with candleglow move to the table with the basin, then to the bedside table. She lit the two candles, before setting down her own, casting the room in a warm, soft light. Clark saw Petyr come into the room, his boots clacking against the floor. He sat down on the bed. Thankfully the bedframe was strong and Clark’s hiding place was not impugned.

“Begin,” he said.

The lady tapped a foot and tutted. “Payment first, m’Lord.”

Lord Baelish gave a chuckle with no joy in it. “You are a business woman, aren’t you?”

She gave her own humorless chuckle. “It is my business, Lord Baelish. Mine to give. I say a man pays first. Prince or pauper alike.”

Coins clinked as they passed from Lord Baelish to the woman. She deposited the coins.

“All right. Now you can give me orders.”

“I am a Lord, wench. I could end you; you realize.”

She laughed. “I’m sure. But then I’ll be gone.” She lowered her voice, as though privy to a conspiracy. “There’s no other whore in Gulltown that fits what you want, dearest Petyr.”

Silence fell in the room. Clark laid still, hoping they wouldn’t sense him. He also swore that the woman just shifted her accent. Finally Petyr spoke.

“Begin.”

The dress crumpled to the floor and she kicked off her shoes. She walked over to Petyr.

“Blow out the candle there,” he said. A puff of air and the room grew a little darker. Clark exhaled silently, reluctantly coming to terms with the fact that he was going to bear witness to this. At least Sansa had a whole tower between her and Baelish when he fucked Lysa. He settled in and tried not to groan.

Petyr was kissing this woman aggressively; he could hear it. He removed his clothes and boots, leaving them on the floor as they crawled into bed. Clark heard a sucking noise and just when he thought that was the most awkward thing he could possibly hear…

“Caaattt,” Petyr moaned. “Gods, Cat…”

Clark was already still but that froze him even more. The bed above him creaked as they both shifted their weight.

“Turn around. On your knees.”

The creaking began to take on a steady rhythm. Clark used the creaking to cover unclasping his cloak.

Petyr continued for several moments, moaning every so often the name that had infatuated him ever since he was a boy.

“Cattt. Caaatt…”

Dust sprinkled down from the bedboards. Clark covered his mouth and stopped a sneeze.

He realized that he’d been clenching his knife hilt so hard, his hand hurt. He flexed his fingers, trying in spite of everything around him to relax. He did his mom’s breathing exercise again…before realizing he didn’t want his mom anywhere near this.

Thankfully Petyr finished. He moaned Catelyn’s name one last time before falling on top of the woman. The creaking creased and was replaced by Petyr catching his breath. No one in the room moved for a minute. He finally heard a pat and the woman got down off the bed. She walked straight to her dress, picking it up and putting it on, before stepping into her shoes. No further words were exchanged before she left and closed the office door behind her.

Petyr stayed on the bed, still breathing loudly. Clark had a moment of panic as his hand appeared below, groping for something, before finally landing on the chamber pot. Clark gritted his teeth, preparing for the worst and that happened. He heard the urine hit the chamber pot. A minute later, it was placed back under the bed. Thankfully this one had a cover, but the smell still hit him.

He kept still though and quiet. Petyr exited the bed and went to the basin. Clark focused in on himself during this. Petyr will do what he will before bed, but he had to be ready.

During his trek from Moat Cailin to Winterfell, he made his first kill. He drew a trap that Dallan had showed him and snared a rabbit. The rabbit looked at him with dark fearful eyes and it took everything he had to kill it. His hand shook, but he did it in one strike.

His hand was trembling now, the same nerves plaguing him. Petyr was done washing himself. He had donned a nightgown from the wardrobe and climbed into bed. The final lit candle was carried from the basin to the night stand before being blown out. Littlefinger climbed under the covers, releasing one last sigh as he sank into bed.

Clark didn’t strike right away. He wanted the man asleep and defenseless. He did his breathing technique to steady his nerves. To cease his trembling. Why he was comfortable associating his mom with Petyr’s murder and not with his whoring, he did not care to answer.

He had no idea how long he waited. It’d been ages since he had hid under a bed. Not since he was a kid. For hide and seek. Not for this. He never expected his. He didn’t want to…

_Ned Stark. The War of the Five Kings. The Riverlands. Ros. Sansa._

The names and things he reiterated in head during moments of doubt. Just a mantra. Not shouted in anger or in judgment. He didn’t expect to enjoy this, but he could not allow Petyr to become what he would become. Not allow him to seize power. Not allow him to play his games…

A light snoring interrupted his thoughts. His hand gripped the knife. It was time. His trembling had ceased. That didn’t mean he felt good about what he was about to do. His breath was coming in hitches.

He turned toward the side of the bed sans chamberpot and began to crawl out as quietly as he could. It took a minute, but without disturbing the snoring, he was out from under the bed. Slowly he stood and turned toward the bed, knife in hand.

Petyr was sleeping on his back, still snoring lightly. Clark rolled up his sleeves. There was a spare pillow next to him. He reached for the pillow and picked it up. It brushed the arm of Petyr lightly, causing him to stir.

He opened his eyes slightly, not quite focusing on anything. Clark stood frozen, before Petyr’s eyes began to narrow on him.

He slammed the pillow down on Petyr’s face and stabbed the side of his neck with the knife. A muffled, gargled attempt of a scream came from the pillow. It was a horrid noise. Clark could feel the blood running over his hand gripping the knife. Petyr’s arms were still trying to fight but were slow from sleep. Clark twisted the wound so that blood squirted onto the bed and less onto him. He stabbed Petyr again, whose wheezes were growing fainter and fainter.

His arms raised for a final feeble effort before falling to his sides. Clark kept the pillow where it was, breathing heavily all the while. Finally, after a solid minute of Petyr being still, he lifted it.

Well aware of the blood dripping from his hand and blade, Clark crossed to the basin, his arm outstretched. He dropped the knife into the basin and lowered his hands, turning the clear water red. The blood was still warm…

Once he was certain that his hands were well rinsed, he strode back to the bed and wiped his hands on the clean part of the sheets. Realizing that blood was probably dripping down through the bed frame, he crouched down, moving the chamber pot to get his cloak and then moving the pot back.

He stood and stared at Petyr lying motionless in the bed. He reached for his wrist, careful not to touch any blood and placed two fingers on the artery. There was no pulse. Littlefinger was dead.

He retrieved his knife and wiped the blade on the sheets, sheathing it before walking out of the room. He closed the door behind him. He moved to the office door and listened. No one was there. He was tempted to sneak out through that way, but he remembered the bolted archways and he didn’t know another way out of the customs office.

Save one, of course. Striding toward the window, he opened it and climbed out. Resigned to just one piece of evidence that he was here, he left the window open and lowered himself to his fingertips. He began to climb down. After considerable effort he reached the bottom and crawled around the edge to the harbor stoneway before the arches.

The taverns were quieter now, his presence more ghostlike than it was before. He began walking to the side streets before realizing his final task. He strode back to the water, unsheathing his knife as he did. Without a second thought, he tossed the trusty blade into the harbor. More out of paranoia than anything else, he removed his sheath and tossed that in too.

He didn’t wait to see them sink before turning and walking away, the customs house looming behind him.

* * *

The moon was peeking through the clouds now, illuminating the forest path ever so slightly. Clark trudged on in a daze. Getting back to the Northern wall, over it and onto the forest path were hazes in his mind.

He knew that once he was alone and under some dim firelight from a window, he checked himself for blood. His clothes, his hands, his boots. Nothing he could see, but one never knew. Perhaps there was a trail of blood all the way from the customs house through the town over the wall and he’ll awake the following morning to the city guard, pulling him in for murder. He could be hanged before the next sunset.

_Clark, Jesus Christ, relax. This isn’t CSI. They’re not going to put in that much effort. They can’t. You have an alibi. Witnesses. You were miles away from the murder. You weren’t there! You’re not a murderer! You’re not! Jesus Christ, you’re not!_

He stopped to breathe deeply, but he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing down his face. He could hear his heart pounding. As loud as it was when he stabbed Petyr…

Clark swallowed a lump in his throat. He didn’t regret what he did. He just didn’t like it. Not at all. And now he could no longer say that he would never do something like that. It was just…just…

He cried silently for a few more moments, before wiping his face and moving on. He walked a mile more alone with his thoughts before rounding the bend and seeing the mill.

Coming to the door, he waited for the creak of the wheel to let himself in and close the door.

Renei was still there, lying on her side. Clark unclasped his cloak, sitting down on the pad and sighing quietly. He then took off his boots, placing them near their bags. Turning around, he stilled. Renei was looking at him, her eyes shining in the darkness. Clark relaxed.

“Anyone come in while I was away?” he asked softly.

She shook her head. “No, everyone’s still asleep.” She propped herself up, looking at him.

Clark rubbed his face and began to undress.

“Did you find your mother’s stolen item?” she asked.

He tossed his trousers to the floor and removed his shirt, before sitting back down. “No.”

There was no response from her. Clark tried to tell himself to lie down, but his body just wouldn’t obey. He trembled.

“Are you cold?”

“Yes.” The lie came automatically. His voice didn’t even seem like his own.

“You’re never cold.”

Finally his body listened and he stretched out on the pad, pulling the blankets over him. He felt Renei’s eyes on him.

“Are you all right?” she asked. The tone of her voice was different than anything he’d heard from her before. He turned over to her, meeting her eyes.

“Thank you for coming with me.” He sank into his pillow. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She still looked at him. He closed his eyes trying to find some sleep, only feel her hand graze his cheek. The floor creaked and he opened his eyes to find her sitting up.

“I think...” She stopped and started again. “I think we should take one part of this lie and make it real. Lest my mum sees clean sheets when we leave.”

Clark propped himself up. “So…the time to get pregnant is nigh?”

She rolled her eyes. “No. It’s not. I lied about that. Besides, I have moon tea in my bag. I don’t want children. Do you?”

He shook his head. She lifted her shift and crawled on top of him. Leaning down, she kissed him, her hand reaching down to stroke him. He responded on pure instinct; his mind numb…

By the time she stopped kissing him and sat up, he was fully erect. He barely had time to breathe before Renei put a hand over his mouth.

“Careful. Remember, you’re a mute.”

By the time they were done, Clark had nearly forgotten what else he’d done that night. He laid with Renei curled up next to him as he drifted off to sleep. He wondered how much she meant of what she just did. Whether any of it was real. Whether he wanted it to be real.

Despite not doubting what he did or why and believing wholeheartedly that murdering Petyr Baelish would benefit Westeros, he couldn’t help but hope nothing that had happened this night was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a big one.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! And your comments and kudos as well. I appreciate them.
> 
> Next chapter will be published on Monday. In the meantime, have a Happy Thanksgiving. Travel safely to and from. And if you don't celebrate Thanksgiving, have a good week anyway!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Despite hardly sleeping at all, Clark felt oddly energetic the following morning. He and Renei folded the blankets and rolled up the pad, before going into the house for breakfast. Anna and Marya were already awake and taking fresh hot bread out of the oven to cool.

“Good morning, Clare,” said Marya, a smile spreading across her face. “And you, Garrel. Did you sleep well?”

“Aye, mum, we did,” said Renei, walking over to them and making to help, before Marya waved her away.

“Sit, sit. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

So Renei sat with Clark at the table, just when Lucas came down the stairs. He greeted them all and came over to Renei.

“I’m sorry, Clare, but I can’t spend all day here. I have to go into town and pick up some supplies.”

Renei gripped her brother’s hand. “Don’t worry, Lucas. We’ll still be here when you get back.”

Lucas smiled sadly. “I know. I just wish to be with you as much as possible before you leave.” He perked up. “Do you all want to come with me? See Gulltown proper?”

Clark kept his face straight as much as he could, but thankfully Renei responded quickly.

“Thank you, Lucas, but I missed this place when I was gone, not Gulltown. Besides Garrel and I are both exhausted from the journey here and we wish to stay in one spot for a day before we depart tomorrow.”

Lucas nodded. “Course. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

Anna brought bread and butter to the table. “Don’t feel so sad for him. He’ll brighten up once he sees Olive in town.”

With a teasing grin, Renei gave no quarter. “Really? Is Olive the baker girl? The one you pine for, Lucas?”

Fighting a blush, Lucas tore off some bread. “She pines for me too,” he muttered.

“Well, that’s very nice. Is she pretty?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

He chewed the bread, talking with a full mouth. “Light brown hair. Pretty face. Not too short.” The blush was getting deeper. “I don’t know…nose?”

“What color are her eyes, Lucas?” asked Anna, barely covering her laughter. “Or do you look elsewhere when you talk to her?”

“Girls, that’s enough,” said Marya, though she was fighting a smile herself. “Leave Lucas be. The sooner he goes to Gulltown and does his errands, not dallying about with Olive,” her eyes pointing at Lucas as she said it, “the sooner he’ll be back here. Are you leaving soon, Lucas?”

Lucas stood up, taking one last piece of bread with him. “Right now, Mum.” He donned his coat and hat at the door, turning back as he exited.

“She has green eyes,” he called, walking toward the road.

The rest of the morning was spent doing chores. Marya tried to stop Clark and Renei from helping, but to no avail. For about an hour, he hunched over a laundry basket with Anna and scrubbed. He struggled not to invite comparisons to Lady Macbeth, cleaning the imaginary blood from her hands.

It was good to have something physical to do. He was feeling increasingly stir crazy from being constantly silent…and the murder.

He rinsed a shirt of Lucas and wrung it, trying to process the fact that he was now a murderer. There was nothing that he could do about it. He couldn’t take it back. He didn’t want to. But he did in some way. He hung the shirt and reached for another article of clothing. All the while, just continuing to breathe…

After the laundry was hung, he joined Renei and her mother at the mill, where they were grinding the grain, sifting it and filling the sacks with flour. Anna went to prepare lunch.

A couple of people came to the mill before midday to pick up their flour. Clark lifted the sacks into carts and shook hands, trying not to give strangers too much time to learn his face. It was all very cordial.

Lunch was a subdued affair, with dried meat and more buttered bread. The family either felt comfortable in their silence or rude speaking in the presence of a mute. Either way, it was an enjoyable meal with only the sounds of the mill wheel creaking, the river flowing and the light wind rustling the trees. They ate outside on the grass. Renei leaned up against him.

As they finished their meal, Lucas came up back the road, carrying up several items. They went to relieve him. He handed his mother a fat gutted salmon, hanging from a rope.

“I figured that we deserved a delicious fish for their final night home.” He smiled. “I bought some wine as well.”

Marya actually clapped her hands for that, giving Lucas a hug and kiss before carrying the salmon indoors. Clark grabbed the wine and another package. They all went inside, Anna taking his coat and hat. As Lucas sat down, a plate of dried meat and bread was put before him.

“How was green-eyed Olive today?” said Anna.

“Green-eyed Olive was well and very pretty today,” he said, chewing his beef. Clark sat across him. He could smell a faint hint of cinnamon and cloves on the teenager.

“And the rest of Gulltown?” asked Marya as she washed her hands.

Lucas’ smile dropped and he waited until he swallowed to answer.

“A little tense truthfully. There was a murder last night. Lord Baelish is dead.”

Clark felt his chest constrict again. He stilled along with everyone else in the house.

“Our head customs officer,” explained Marya to Renei and Clark before going back to Lucas. “When? How?”

Lucas reached for the bread. “People said it was sometime last night. Stabbed in his bed.” He broke off a piece. “Some whore did it.”

Anna sat down. “Who?”

“Don’t know. Just some whore.” He shrugged. “Lord Baelish was a miser. Probably didn’t pay her enough and she killed him.”

Clark turned to see Renei’s eyes on him. He couldn’t read her expression.

“What’s going to happen?” asked Anna.

“She hangs today.”

“Today?”

Lucas nodded. “It’s what Olive said anyway. They were just about to bring her out when I left…”

“All right, that’s enough,” said Marya briskly. “It’s our last day with Clare and Garrel. Let’s not spoil it with any more talk of lowlifes and lowly deeds. Anna, go sweep the mill while it’s still light.”

As Anna strolled past and out the door, Clark accepted the task of peeling the potatoes. He did so numbly, sitting at the table next to an untroubled Lucas. Time seemed to slow and quicken simultaneously. He blinked to find himself at dinner, still sitting in the same spot. He swore he had just been peeling potatoes…

Now he was eating them, bringing them absentmindedly to his mouth and swallowing. His wine was barely drunk. A fish skin and bones were the only remaining parts of his salmon.

Renei’s hand appeared on his shoulder. He turned to see Marya, looking at him expectantly. He had missed a question.

“Could you repeat that, Mum, please? His mind was elsewhere,” said Renei lightly.

“I said, is there any chance that you two would consider moving here? A man of letters can always find use in Gulltown. As for Clare, with Lady Stark as a reference, I’m sure she could find work quite easily as well.”

Clark took a second before shaking his head gently. Renei took his hand.

“I told you, Mum. I like the North. Garrel’s from there and besides a lady’s maid is not just something you walk away from. Lady Stark put time into me. She trusts me. That’s not something they can replace so easily.”

“That’s horseshit,” said Anna, from the corner.

“Anna…”

“I’m sorry, Mum, but it is. The highborn care far less for you than you think. Like they couldn’t replace you if they grew tired of you...”

“Anna, enough.” said Lucas, his eyes on his plate.

“It’s true though…”

“I said enough,” said Lucas, his voice taking on an authority that Clark hadn’t heard before. It was quiet though. “Clare’s here now. Maybe she’ll visit again one day. But she has to leave in the morn. So, let’s just enjoy this evening and not…”

He trailed off and went back to his plate. Anna swallowed and did not raise the question again. Marya, after a few seconds of silence, changed the subject to a more cheerful one and Clark retreated back into his headspace.

They exchanged their farewells that evening before bed. After a thorough handshake from Lucas, Anna and Marya surprised him with long, big hugs. He tried not to feel worse that he brought their Clare home only to take her away again so soon.

The mill was not conductive to a good rest. Renei managed to fall asleep, but Clark remained sitting, staring into darkness. It wasn’t all due to Petyr’s death. He was paranoid about sleeping in and missing the boat. He also kept thinking back to the young woman who now hung in Gulltown, whom he only knew by voice.

How much did Petyr’s death cost? One hundred gold dragons, travel expenses, a horrible lie to one family, one nameless whore…

He knew cruelly that it was worth it. Petyr was not there to enable Robert and to manipulate the kingdoms into war. But war could still happen. Was there anything that could stop Jon Arryn and Stannis when they discover the bastardry of Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen? Would they confront Cersei? How would Robert react? How would Tywin respond…?

The night passed with these thoughts plaguing Clark. He had the same feeling he had when he first arrived in Westeros. Just an overwhelming weight that sunk deeper and deeper. Now it was aided by the fact that he had killed someone.

The breathing exercises took longer than he expected to work and he didn’t lie down. He simply felt numb, with only one desire left: he needed to leave Gulltown and return to Winterfell as soon as possible.

When the darkness lessened and Clark could begin to see gray light seep into the mill, he woke Renei. She didn’t say a word to him before she went to bed and this morning was no different. Silently she dressed, as he put away their bedding. After the mill was respectfully taken care of, they crept out and started south on the main road.

As opposed to the previous night, there was little cloud cover. The stars were quickly disappearing as they walked down the path. This hike seemed to take longer than usual and he watched the eastern sky with some apprehension. Nevertheless, within an hour, they arrived at the Northern Gate.

As they approached, he felt Renei’s eyes fall on him. He turned and gave her a reassuring nod.

“Come on now,” she muttered. “No need for that horseshit.”

A genuine chuckle fell out of him. He didn’t know why. Didn’t have time to think about it. The guards outside the gate noticed their approach.

“Halt!” one said. “What’s your business?”

“My husband and I are to board a ship within the hour,” said Renei, her voice lightly honeyed.

The other guard stepped forward.

“Is this the one that Ben was preening about?”

The first guard rolled his eyes. “I suppose.” He stood aside and waved them through. “All right, go ahead.”

“Thank you,” said Renei as Clark nodded to them both. They passed through the opened gate and left the two guards to the rest of their morning.

Their journey through the town was quick, despite more activity in the streets than Clark had expected in the predawn. Bakers and smiths were managing their fires. Fishermen were walking down to the docks for the morning catch. Even the taverns were finishing with their close.

The chilly morning sea breeze hit them as soon as they came into the harbor. Or at least it seemed so. Clark saw Renei trembling. He took out his navy cloak and wrapped it around her. She didn’t protest and they made their way to the custom house, until Clark saw something that made his heart stop...

_Jesus Christ_…

There was a gallows structure on the stonewalk. It must have been put up yesterday. A figure hung from the crossbeam, turning slightly with the breeze, her corpse pale as chalk, her blue dress stained with excrement.

A sign was around her neck. Clark slowed to read it. _Murdering Whore_ it stated. His eyes followed the sign up to her face, framed by dark red hair…red hair…

He felt a tug by his elbow.

“Don’t stare, damn you,” hissed Renei, her eyes forward. “Keep moving.”

Picking up the pace, they entered the customs house. The officer barely looked at their belongings before waving them through. The docks were coming to life and ships were leaving the harbor. They descended down onto the dock, traversing their way through merchants and sailors to The Bottom Eel.

The captain saw them coming and waved them aboard.

“Good morning onto thee, Batlers!” he called as they walked up the plank. He nodded to Renei, while he shook Clark’s hand. “Did you have a good stay in Gulltown?”

“We did,” said Renei, not able to suppress a yawn. “Excuse me. When will we be getting on our way, Captain?”

“No more than an hour, ma’am,” the captain said. “Boys still loading the merchandise and all.”

Clark didn’t hear the rest of the captain’s words. He went to the rails, leaning toward the town. He knew he shouldn’t look, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes were drawn to the hanging dead woman in the harbor. With the red hair.

That and combined with Petyr’s moans of his boyhood obsession, he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Under the soft glow of candlelight and facing away from him, this woman was not the worst substitute for Catelyn Stark that Petyr could find.

He felt a strain in his hands. Looking down, he saw that they were tightly clenched. He breathed in, straightening them out. His breathing made him more tired than relaxed, the lack of sleep for the past two nights beginning to make itself known.

Renei came to his side. “It’s rude to leave your wife alone with unruly sailors.”

The tone was sardonic and he tried to respond in kind, but no sound came out. He had no energy for verbal play. So he just settled for a tiring sigh.

He felt her gaze follow his. They both regarded the hanging woman in the distance. He didn’t know how long they stared before the sailors began to cast off ropes and steer the ship out of the harbor. The hanging woman began to recede into the distance.

Clark turned to see Renei’s face downcast toward the water. Her gaze was still hard though. He checked his surroundings before muttering.

“What?”

She breathed through her nose. “Wasn’t what I wanted to see when I left my home again. The big port. Her hanging in front.”

The sea breeze began to pick up. Renei’s raven hair fought against the scarf she wrapped around it and she shivered, despite Clark’s navy cloak.

“I’m sorry you saw that,” Clark said in a low voice.

Renei shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Lowlife. Lowly deeds. All she is, right? Just some whore.”

Her voice quieted as she spoke. Clark leaned in to match her tone.

“Your family loves you. They just…they just don’t…”

“I don’t want to hear you talk about them,” Renei stated softly. She was clear and firm. “Not here or now or ever in the future. Do you understand?”

“I do,” he said immediately, not wanting to argue. They didn’t say another word until The Bottom Eel had cleared the harbor. The captain yelled for the sails to be unfurled. The speed picked up. Soon they would be sailing on the Narrow Sea, headed north for White Harbor.

However, even the heavy wind wasn’t doing enough to keep Clark awake. He was nodding off at the rails. Renei tapped her fingers impatiently.

“Oh seven hells,” she exclaimed, as Clark nodded onto the rails for a fourth time. “Go down below and sleep, will you? Before you topple off. I don’t need you drowning before I get the other half.”

Conceding that much, Clark picked himself off the rails. Before he left for the cabin below, he leaned to Renei.

“You’re not a lowlife,” he said softly, just under the crash of the water.

She met his eyes but he didn’t back down. They stared coolly at each other, before she broke the silence.

“You look awful,” she said, before turning back to the sea.

He knew that was the best he was going to get. Trying to recall his sea legs, he stumbled to the cabin, yawning vigorously all the while.

* * *

The voyage back to White Harbor was just as quiet as the voyage from. He managed to catch up on sleep. The weather was fair, for the end of a slight winter. He did get sick one day though.

Renei spoke just as much as him. She shared the bed for warmth and nothing else. She ate and stood with him, for they were still husband and wife to this crew. A silent couple sailing back North.

Only in solitary moments did Clark see a shadow in Renei’s eyes. If it was all from the dead woman in Gulltown, he understood somewhat. The memory of the corpse turning gently from the rope haunted him. Not to hysteria, mind, but still. He found himself breathing quickly on the ship for no good reason. Maybe Renei was smart for putting her head down, not gazing at the unfortunate woman.

In some sense, he was glad that Renei put an embargo on discussing what had happened in Gulltown. He wanted to offer comforting words, but he also had no idea what to say. He wished he knew the hung woman’s name. Would she just remain a nameless ghost for him?

_She was worth it, Clark. Petyr’s dead. You’re still here to save more. It’s horrible but it IS worth it._

_…_

_Was she though?_

Those were the two thoughts that entered his mind several times a day. Being a passenger on a boat without working didn’t help. Neither was the silence. He longed to scream sometimes, but he’d have to wait until they landed.

Clark and Renei arrived in White Harbor after six nights on the Narrow Sea. It was just before midday when they disembarked. They decided together that they would rather get back to Winterfell as soon as possible, electing not to stay the night. It took another hour, but they soon retrieved their old cart and horse from the port stables.

They rode out of White Harbor, knowing that they would have to camp that night. Renei never complained about sleeping outside, but she did stay close to the fire after their light dinner. Once Clark tended to the horse, he joined her by the flames. They sat in silence for a while, alone by the river, the White Knife, according to the map.

Even before Gulltown and before that when they arrived in White Harbor from Winterfell, they didn’t converse much. Renei seemed disinterested and Clark didn’t want to push her. So far, this night was proving to be no different. Renei sat, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the flames for a long time. Clark extracted his shaving kit from his rucksack.

He wetted the soap and was rubbing it onto his face when Renei broke the silence.

“The man who was killed by that whore,” she murmured, her voice barely rising above the flames. “What was he to you?”

Clark wiped his hands clean. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I ask,” she said, her eyes still to the fire. “What did Lord Baelish do to you?”

The river carried the silence for him. He knew he should answer and quickly too, lest he look too guilty. But he couldn’t help it. His mouth refused to open. The lie he wanted to tell was stuck inside.

Renei turned her eyes to him, waiting. “Well?”

_He was a scheming, greedy man who cared nothing for the lives he ruined as long as it brought him what he wanted. I killed him before he could destroy any more lives._

Clark picked up the razor, opening it. “Nothing. Just the man who had bought my mother’s stolen good.”

“Did you kill him?” She seemed quite calm asking that question.

Clark willed his heart to slow. “He was already dead when I snuck inside. No candles lit. I heard no one breathing. I thought there was no one there. I struck a match.”

He brought the razor slowly down his cheek. He wetted the blade and raised it again…before letting his hand fall to his lap.

“Never seen someone murdered like that before. I stood shocked for a few minutes, couldn’t move...I tried to search his office, but…I couldn’t. I just…I left soon after. Threw my knife in the harbor from the window. Didn’t want to be caught leaving that place with a possible murder weapon.”

The fire seemed to grow brighter. Clark turned to Renei. Her expression didn’t look suspicious, but it didn’t seem believing either. However, when she silently sighed and looked to the fire again, somehow he knew that she accepted his story.

He brought the razor back up and continued to shave.

“You should keep the beard one day,” she said, as he finished, scraping the last remnants of his moustache.

“Everyone here has beards.”

He soaked a cloth and wiped his face clean. He also cleaned the razor before putting the kit away.

“Do you know any songs?” asked Renei. “Something from your home?”

Clark glanced at her and she answered with a shrug. “You saw my home. Might as well give a glimpse of yours.”

Clark considered it. “A few. What’d do you want to hear?”

“Something light. Something sad.” She laid down on her pad, pulling her blankets over her.

He crossed his legs, lazily poking at the fire. “There’s one called The Unfortunate Lad. It’s about a young man who dies from syphilis.”

“What’s that?”

“Disease from my homeland. Spread through fucking.” He caught her eyebrows raising up. “Don’t worry, I don’t have it.”

“I’m sure that’s what a man would say if he did.”

“Well, I don’t.”

She returned his stare for a few seconds before returning to the fire. She snuggled in his cloak, which she was using as a pillow.

“Sing it then,” she murmured, her eyes reflecting the flames.

What little wind there was seemed to have died the moment before. The forest was quiet with no insects to give their chorus, still too cold from the end of winter. The running of the White Knife and the crackle of the campfire were the only accompaniment Clark would have.

He swallowed some spit and he began, gentle and low.

“As I was a walking  
Down by the loch  
As I was a walking one morning of late  
Who should I spy  
But my own dear comrade?  
Wrapped up in flannel  
So hard is his fate

I boldly stepped up to  
And kindly did ask him  
Why are you wrapped up in flannel so white?  
My body is injured  
And sadly disordered  
All by a young woman  
My own heart's delight

Oh had she but told me  
When she disordered me  
Had she but told me of it at the time  
I might have got salts  
Or pills of white mercury  
But now I'm cut down  
In the height of my prime

Get six pretty maidens  
To carry my coffin  
And six pretty maidens  
To bear up my pall  
And give to each of them  
Bunches of roses  
That they may not smell me  
As they go along.”

  
Clark let the last note fade away. A moment passed before he looked to Renei.

“You’ve a nice voice,” she said, halfway to sleep. She didn’t wait for him to respond before rolling over.

Clark kept his eye on her for a while before returning to the fire. He opened his waterskin and raised it to the flames.

_To you, Petyr. You were good television._

He drank the water, wishing it were whiskey.

A short time later, he humored the idea of sleeping himself. However, the idea seemed a little dangerous to Clark. He hated the exposure and he didn’t like leaving a fire unattended. He sat and waited for the flames to run their course.

The shaving kit was put away but the razor stayed out. Not that he would be able to do anything with it, but it was something at least. As his hand gripped the razor, he couldn’t help but flash back to how his original knife felt.

Sighing, he realized that he could have and should have just bought another knife in White Harbor.

He cursed himself but saw a new advantage immediately. The absence of a blade would give him a good excuse to go see Mikken at Winterfell and select a knife of Northern steel. Nothing too extravagant. He had to maintain some appearances. A librarian walking around with a long blade at the hip was sure to raise some eyebrows.

When the fire was out, he lied down and shuddered as he closed his eyes. He couldn’t help but replay the scene in the customs house. His knife in Petyr’s throat. Desperate to get some sleep, he concentrated on the original death of Littlefinger: the ambush trial, Bran’s testimony, the pleading, Sansa’s decision, Arya’s execution…

He laughed lightly without finding anything humorous about it. He supposed Littlefinger died the same way both times; with his throat slit. Tiresias, with the rinky-dink knife and Arya with the Valyrian steel dagger…

Clark felt his breath stop.

_Oh shit._

He opened his eyes and sat up quickly.

“Shit,” he hissed. Turning to Renei, he saw that she was still asleep. He got up as quickly and quietly as possible, walking, but mostly stumbling down to the White Knife.

“You fucking moron, Clark. You fucking, stupid, fucking goddamn moron…”

It was a struggle to keep his voice down and he never wished more that he could just scream. He reached the White Knife, the moon reflected in the running river. He paced along the edge, before crouching down and splashing his face with water.

He remained crouched, trying desperately to reign in his panic.

_Okay, Clark. Clark, just breathe. Breathe and think. Where did that knife come? The Valyrian steel dagger. Where did it come from? Think. Just think…_

He sat down on the riverbank and closed his eyes, thinking over the show.

_Just go backward…okay, okay…Arya had the dagger last. She got it from Bran, who got it from Littlefinger…where did he get it? Did…The assassin had it, so where did Petyr get it?_

He lowered his face and rubbed his temples.

_First season, first season….after the assassination attempt, Cat went to King’s Landing. She and Ned asked Littlefinger about it…He mentioned Tyrion Lannister, said he lost the dagger…was that a lie? Did Tyrion say it was a lie? Jesus Christ…_

Clark racked his brains, trying to recall every last detail he could. Trying desperately to recall the true origin of the Valyrian steel dagger. Did Petyr have it already? Was it locked away in Gulltown? Or did he only acquire it when he became more powerful and wealthy as Master of Coin? Wasn’t Joffrey the one to order Bran’s assassination and if so, when did he get it? Was it even his?

He felt tears come to his eyes, out of exhaustion, out of killing Petyr, out of overlooking the dagger, out of his faulty memory...he just couldn’t stop it. He sobbed silently and when the tears were done, he just sat quietly. With his mind dazed, he removed his boots and placed his feet in the running water.

Though his feet would not feel the full chill, he slowly came back to himself. He stood and walked back to the campfire. Renei was still asleep, snoring lightly. He sat down on his pad. It would probably be another restless night for him. However he eventually stretched out, in the vain hope that he could delude himself in sleeping.

He could feel it working. Wiping his eyes for a final time that evening, he couldn’t help but curse himself one last time before losing consciousness.

_Fuck you, Clark. And fuck you too, Tiresias._

* * *

However, in the following days, Clark felt the anger of overlooking the dagger mostly dissipate. It’s hard to sustain anger, even toward oneself and Clark’s rage slowly mellowed into a cold determination. There were other Valyrian steel weapons in the world. The dagger was not their only option, though he would keep an ear out for it. Years were ahead of them. And they could prepare in other ways as well.

That said, his mood was still pretty downtrodden the first few days of the journey. Renei definitely noticed, but said nothing. However, as they ventured closer and closer to Winterfell, he breathed easier, feeling the horror of killing Petyr lessen the farther away they traveled.

Overall, the return trip proved to be a shorter affair. Within twelve days, they pulled up to the brothel in Wintertown around midday. Renei grabbed her bag and jumped down, without waiting for a hand. She did wait until he came around to meet her.

“I’ll deliver the other half tonight,” he said, after checking to make sure they were alone.

She nodded and reached into her bag, handing over two handkerchiefs.

“Pretend I forgot these and you’re delivering them back to me,” she said. Without another word, she strode to the brothel and entered.

Clark stood there for a long minute, before climbing aboard the cart and continuing toward the castle. Wintertown was bustling with activity. He glimpsed familiar faces in the town as they went about their business. He even received nods from the candlemaker and a pig farmer, both of whom he was acquainted with.

He felt a little ridiculous riding high above the populace on his cart, but he was tired and he decided to let the horse take the final steps of the journey.

Approaching the gate, he saw some familiar faces amongst the guard, who motioned for him to stop. He pulled the reins gently and halted before the entrance.

“Hello Halford,” he said, lowering his hood. “Vics, how are you?”

“Tiresias?,” said Vics, stepping forward. “You back already?”

“Evidently,” Clark remarked, “Anything exciting happened while I was away?”

The young guard shrugged. “Not that I can see.”

“Well, that’s not bad news.” He turned to Halford, who remained silent. “May I pass?”

Halford stepped back and waved him forward. The courtyard was busy and ringing with anvil hits, animal noises and carpentry. At first no one even noticed him entering the courtyard. He brought the cart to the stables, where a stableboy came out to greet him.

“Hello Rod,” he called as he jumped down. “Where’s Hullen?”

Rod took the reins in one hand and began unhitch the horse from the cart. “Out in the fields with Lord Stark, Lord Robb and Jon Snow. Riding lesson.”

Clark helped unhitched the other side and waited until Rod stabled the tired animal. After they pushed the cart into storage and sorted the borrowed blankets and supplies, Clark trudged back to his room. He greeted a few he knew; Mal, Gord, he even ran into Maester Luwin on his way. As genuinely happy he was to see them, he quickly excused himself from each run-in, eager for his refuge.

A sliver thin layer of dust coated his room, but not as much as he expected. Someone had cleaned the place at least once in his absence. He dropped his bag and plopped down on the bed. Sleep came to the edge of his consciousness and he was tempted to shut his eyes and welcome it.

Summoning his willpower though, he got up. He went to the chest in the corner, for which only he had the key for. Upon opening it, he took out the coin purse in the corner. It still felt quite full. Nevertheless, he counted out the fifty remaining dragons that would go to Renei tonight.

Satisfied with the count, he locked the purse away again. He then went to the springs with a change of clothes and bathed. He wasn’t quite as grimy as when he first arrived at Winterfell, but he still needed a scrub.

After a quick shave, Clark went up to the library. He didn’t want to search all over the castle for Lord Stark and so decided to kill time before dinner. Although in the middle of reading Karstark history, he did remember something else. He put away the tome and went back to the yard, heading for the blacksmith.

The rush of heat swept over him and he resisted the urge to remove his furs. Mikken stood in the back, correcting the technique of a young apprentice. Clark waited politely as Mikken finished and came to the front.

“Hello Mikken,” greeted Clark, extending his hand to shake. Mikken took a look at his hand and raised his own, showing the soot.

“I don’t mind soot, Mikken.”

“Aye, I’m sure you don’t. But the pages in your library do.” He took a cloth and wiped his hands. “How can I help ye, Tiresias?”

Clark lowered his hand. “I need a dagger.”

“What happened to your old one?”

_Killed a man. Currently at the bottom of the Gulltown harbor._

“Broke. On the way back to Winterfell.”

Mikken picked up a mold and set it down on the table, locking it into place before picking up a chisel. Clark stayed a safe distance.

“No surprise there,” said Mikken, as he began to the shape the mold. “Where’d you purchase that shite knife?”

“Fairmarket.”

“That says it. The best steel in the Riverlands can’t compete with my forge. And you didn’t even get the best.”

Clark resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m sure every other smith from every other kingdom in Westeros says the same.”

“Aye and they’re welcome to test that. Southern steel didn’t bring the North to heel.”

“No,” said Clark. “Only dragons from the east.”

Mikken laughed at that, blowing out the remains from the chiseling. Clark gave him a minute before inquiring further.

“And the dagger?”

The smith stood, sighing. “I’m not sure if I can accommodate ye, Tiresias. Lord Stark is commissioning a large amount of ironworks. Construction at the start of spring. The Broken Tower broken further and replaced.”

“Not asking for something special from scratch. A good dagger’s what I need. I’m no lord. Don’t need nothing fancy.”

Mikken gave him an odd look. “I don’t see why a librarian needs a dagger at all.”

Clark met his eyes and didn’t back down. The thought of the Valyrian dagger flashed in his mind and he forced it away. Finally the smith sighed.

“Come on.” He walked to the back, Clark followed, sidestepping the apprentices as they hammered. “I’ve a few rough blades I can hone and hilt. Fine with nothing fancy, ye said?”

“If it’s sharp, sturdy and won’t break on me, it’ll work,” called Clark over the hammering. Mikken extracted a few short blades from a pile and laid them on a table.

“These will all do,” he said, running his fingers over them. “What’s your pleasure?”

The shortest two blades seemed about nine inches, while the longest ran up to fourteen. Not wanting to go to the extreme either way, Clark settled for the middle. He pointed to an eleven-inch blade. Mikken picked it up, looking it over.

“I’ll need a week to finish this,” he said. “That’ll include the sheath. The workers need irons quickly.”

“I understand,” said Clark. “Don’t think I’ll need a blade that fast. What’s your price?”

“Three dragons ought to do it.” He caught Clark’s widening eye. “Is that too much for a decent blade?”

Clark shook his head and handed over the coin. “For Northern steel? I’ll pay up.”

Completely forgetting the beginning of the conversation, he shook Mikken’s hand and sealed the deal. Mikken’s eyes with filled with laughter as Clark felt the soot from the blacksmith. With that, Clark left the forge and washed his hands by the kitchen.

It was now time for dinner and Clark entered the Great Hall. Lord and Lady Stark were sitting with the children. He softened his step and approached as a good subject would. He reached the table and stood silently, waiting to be noticed.

Lord Stark was conversing with Ser Rodrik Cassel and it was the knight who saw Clark, waiting at the front of the table. He muttered to Ned, who turned to Clark.

“Good evening, Lord Stark,” Clark said, giving a short bow.

Ned stood and came around. He shook Clark’s hand.

“Tiresias, welcome back,” he greeted as warmly as a taciturn man could. “I’d heard you arrived. Was the journey kind to you?”

“It was, my Lord.”

Ned clapped his shoulder. “Well, you’ll have to tell me more tomorrow.” His tone was light but his eyes were quite serious.

Clark nodded. “Of course.” He turned to Catelyn and nodded. “Lady Stark, good evening.”

Catelyn Stark looked at him. She seemed composed but her eyes were a little strained. She looked like she had cried that day.

Clark had a good idea what caused it…

Nevertheless she smiled. “Good evening, Tiresias. I’m glad to see you’ve arrived safe.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Catelyn’s greeting caused the children to notice him.

“Tiresias!” called Robb from his seat. Jon turned to see him. He greeted all of them succinctly, before dismissing himself and sitting down at the other end of the hall, his whole body feeling like it wanted to sink into the floor.

Mal came to him with a mug of ale. Thanking her, he lifted it and drank nearly the whole thing without thinking. He set it down to see her barely holding in a laugh.

He shrugged. “I’m really thirsty.”

“So I gathered,” she said blithely. “Do you want something to eat as well?”

She ended up bringing up him a bowl of cawl. After two helpings and another round of ale, Clark felt stupidly content. He wanted to go to bed right away and hide from the world.

However he still had one more errand for the night.

In his room, he positioned the dragons in his rucksack as to not made too much noise. He also covered the rucksack by wearing the cloak. Being tipsy didn’t help him, but it did make it fun. Finally he got it right and after grabbing the handkerchiefs, he wandered out of his room.

The warmer (comparatively) night air meant that the silent, solitary, snow-laden walks to the brothel were gone for the next several years. Wintertown was no Gulltown, but a few people were out enjoying the evening. Clark didn’t bother to greet them. They all ignored him as well.

The noise of the brothel swept over him. Ambre saw him and rushed over.

“Tiresias!” she said, shaking his hand. “Welcome back, welcome back. Didn’t expect you here tonight. You had Renei all to yourself, after all.”

Clark smiled, he hoped in a friendly way. “She forgot some handkerchiefs. I’m just here to return them.” He held them up. “Can I go back there?”

Ambre shrugged. “Sure, why not? Treat my place as your own, why don’t you?”

He patted her shoulder. “Ambre, you’re a peach.”

She whacked his hand away, laughing. “Fuck off.”

Unable to suppress a grin, he exited into the hallway, hearing Ambre yell after him, “Make sure you’re out of there quick. You didn’t pay for tonight.”

He came to her door and knocked. After a minute, Renei opened the door and stood aside, shutting it after he entered.

Clark tossed the handkerchiefs down on the bed. He swung the rucksack around, extracting the purse and placing it on the bed as well. He opened it and stood aside.

Renei stepped forward, staring at the purse. She placed her hand inside, running her fingers gently through the coins.

“Do you want to count it?” asked Clark.

“I’ll do it later, but this looks about the same.”

A silence fell on them. Renei tied the purse shut and placed it into that small chest that wasn’t usually there. Hitching his rucksack back onto his shoulders, Clark adjusted his cloak and went to the door.

“I should go now,” he said. “See you.”

“Tiresias,” Renei turned back to him. “I don’t want you to come back. Not to me. You can come here and be with any other girl. But not with me.”

Clark stood dumb by the door. A part of him wanted to argue, ask why…but another part just knew and understood. It stung, but…well, there really were no buts.

“I understand,” he heard himself say. “If I come, I won’t ask for you.”

The fire crackled. He hung his head trying to think what he wanted to say. He lifted his gaze to see Renei staring steadily at him.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he said, before opening the door. A young girl was carrying a guard to her room, her excited laughter filling the silence before she disappeared.

“Goodbye, Renei.” He shut the door and walked away.

Trudging back to the castle, he removed his cloak as usual, feeling the cool air. A strange feeling was going through his chest. It wasn’t heartbreak. But it wasn’t far off.

A tavern came up on his left and it was very tempting to go in…

He sighed and walked past. It wouldn’t do for the future of Westeros if he drowned himself in drink and emotional ambiguity. Petyr Baelish was dead. He had hurt people for that. He would probably have to hurt a lot more people before this whole thing was over. He would have to accept that. If not, well then…perhaps he was the wrong person to wake up on that hill in the Riverlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys had a good holiday this past week and now we're into the last month of the decade!
> 
> Some notes for the chapter…
> 
> Here’s a Youtube link for The Unfortunate Lad. It’s sung by Brendan Gleeson for the movie, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs. And it’s definitely the arrangement I had in my mind when I wrote that scene.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrY7qjmZECg
> 
> Cawl - A traditional Welsh soup. The recipes vary, but common ingredients include lamb or beef with leeks, swedes, potatoes, carrots and other seasonal vegetables. I’ve decided it exists in Westeros because it’s my story and I like the word cawl. Also it sounds really delicious.
> 
> Again, thank you for reading and for all your kudos and comments! See you next Monday!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Clark stood in Ned’s solar, waiting for him to appear. It was early in the afternoon and the midday meal wasn’t enough time for his hand to loosen up. He’d spent four straight hours writing to various holds and castles for the library’s expansion. The work had piled up in his absence. After not writing for six weeks, the cramp in his hand was not backing down.

He massaged it gently, ignoring the urge to sit.

Footsteps came down the hall. He turned to see Lord Stark opening the door. There were no guards in the hallway, or so he glimpsed before the door was shut.

Clark inclined his head. “You summoned me?”

Ned nodded and went to his desk. He opened a drawer and extracted a letter. Instead of sitting behind the desk however, he came to the fire and took one of the seats there. He gestured to the other, which Clark took for himself.

“Thank you,” he said.

Ned nodded, looking at the fire in the hearth before turning to Clark. “Did you succeed in what you set out to do?”

Clark was a little taken back by the opaqueness of the question. After all, they discussed openly killing someone, but he nodded quickly.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did.”

Ned met his eyes for a moment, before handing him the letter from his desk. Clark took it uncertainly.

“I received that from the capital two days ago,” stated Ned, his voice low. “From the Hand of the King.”

“Jon Arryn?”

Ned nodded, his eyes waiting. Clark unfurled the parchment and read.

_Dear Ned, Lord of Winterfell,_

_Lysa has gifted me with a son, your new nephew, Robin. I thank the Seven that he has survived the birth, avoiding the fate of his stillborn siblings. He is not healthy enough as to completely assuage my fears, but he still breathes._

_I ask you, Ned, or more so, your wife if she could send comfort to my wife. It was a difficult labor for her. Not only did the memories of her previous attempts haunt her, but she was overcome with grief before the birth of Robin._

_A few days before the birth, we had received word that Lord Petyr Baelish was brutally murdered in Gulltown, where I had appointed him as head customs officer. He had shown great promise. His death is a horrible tragedy, felt deeply by my wife. As you know, Petyr and she and Catelyn were friends from his fostering at Riverrun. It was actually Lysa who had recommended Petyr for the position. _

_I’m not too proud to deny that my wife was infatuated with Lord Baelish, that he was her true desire. Every noble in the seven kingdoms knows the nature of our marriage. I don’t resent her overwhelming grief, but I’m unable to comfort her. The sight of her real husband when she is consumed with the murder of her preferred man is too much for her._

_She won’t see me and she won’t leave little Robin’s side. Her ladies-in-waiting cannot comfort her. The boy is everything to her now. I know Catelyn is unable to leave Winterfell with children so young, but if she could send Lysa a condolence as well as keep a regular exchange of ravens, that might cheer her._

_Please forgive me an old man’s rambling. I give thanks that the winter was short and wish good fortune for you and your family._

_With all my affection,_

_Jon,_

_Hand of the King _

Clark lowered the letter and sank further into the chair. He handed it back to Ned, who took it wordlessly.

“Congratulations on the new nephew.”

Ned nodded, though the gesture seemed automatic.

“I had never met Lord Baelish,” he said. “But I have heard of him. From Catelyn.”

“The duel with Brandon,” Clark mused. Ned looked at him sharply, then back to the fire.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you know of that.”

Clark shrugged. “He never got over her. Lysa was a cheap substitute when he was bedridden and weak. Truthfully I don’t believe she would appreciate a condolence from Lady Catelyn. It’ll just be a raw memory for Lady Arryn. A bitter reminder that Petyr loved your wife and not her.”

On that, Lord Stark got up and went to his desk. He placed the letter down and bowed his head, his hands pressing against the surface. There was nothing said for a while. Finally, Clark got up and walked to the desk himself. He waited for the Lord of Winterfell to collect his thoughts.

Ned was still staring at the desk when he spoke.

“Was Lord Baelish in your visions? A thorn in our side?”

Clark took a calming breath. “Does it matter now?”

Silence reigned in the solar. When Ned Stark gathered himself, he raised his eyes to meet Clark’s.

“I will not ask you what happened during your absence or what you did. But in the future, if you’re under my roof and protection, you will disclose your actions and explain their necessity. Is that understood?”

Clark nodded. “I understand.” He hoped he wouldn’t have to break that promise.

Sinking into the chair, Ned sighed. Clark relaxed himself.

“So,” he began. “The Broken Tower?”

Ned nodded. “I inspected the ruins during your absence with Vanyon Poole and the masons. We considered rebuilding from the present state, but that’s more trouble than it’s worth. So we’re going to begin tearing it down the first week of spring. Place a structure for food storage there. A keep without the hot spring waters coursing through them.”

“Well, that’s a beginning I suppose,” said Clark, walking to the window. The Broken Tower stood in the distance. The beginning of Bran’s journey. If that was gone, would the Three-Eyed Raven still reach out to Bran through his dreams? Or the Reeds? He turned back to Ned.

“I’ll warn this about any food stored here, Lord Stark. When the dead attacked Winterfell, they crumbled quite a bit of it. If you defeat them, but they manage to destroy the food, then the people will starve and die anyway. The food stored should be made to move with evacuees down south, if that step is taken.”

“We’ll take that into consideration,” promised Lord Stark. He stood up and crossed to the map on the North, beckoning Clark to follow him.

“We’ll begin negotiations with the Reach to export more dried goods to the North in the coming years. We’ve always been self-sufficient when it comes to feeding ourselves. Anything we import will be a boon to our stores.” Ned gestured to the various lands. “As for the North, the most fertile of our lands are these areas. I’ve already sent riders to inspect the various farmlands there. Any room for expansion in the fields. Correspond with the respective lords holding them. For any extra hands and funds needed, we’ll find a way to supply them.”

He glanced at Clark.

“You won’t be needing a hundred dragons for each venture, will you?”

Clark shook his head. “I’ll try and keep the ventures as inexpensive as possible.” His fingers traced the eastern coast, down south until he reached the edge of the map. “What about Dragonstone?”

Ned sighed. “I confess that I have deferred on that task. Keeping the true nature of dragonglass a secret won’t be easy. Stannis will be curious as to why I request it. He’ll discern any paltry excuse.”

Clark had thought about this himself for the past few weeks. He definitely didn’t need the rest of Westeros hearing rumblings of the White Walkers and particularly of Lord Stark taking actions to prevent them. They’d think him insane. Even if they traded with Ned Stark, if they knew that he believed the North was headed for desperate times, they would drive up the price of trade.

He suspected that Stannis Baratheon was not a lord who would take extreme advantage of Ned Stark. He knew the two respected each other. But that was still no reason not to be careful.

“I suppose there are a few options,” Clark offered. “You can tell him that a Northern hill tribe was discovered to value dragonglass highly and that they will trade quite cheaply with it. You can say the same with the free folk. That you’re making overtures and they find it pretty. You could say that your smiths are trying to recreate some Valyrian steel and they heard that its core ingredient is obsidian.”

Ned gave him a quick look. “Is that true?”

“No idea.” He tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “Actually forget that. That’ll probably just get you more attention than you want. I’d go with the tribe or free folk excuse.”

“Sorcha will be here in a sennight,” muttered Ned, his fingers running across his calendar. “If she’s open to it, we can corroborate a story for Lord Stannis.”

“Can she be trusted?”

“She has no sights set beyond her hills,” answered Ned without any hesitation. “It was difficult enough, getting her to come to Winterfell. If she agrees to the ruse, she’ll keep it.” 

Clark walked to the other edge of the map. He now stood beyond the wall.

“And the Free Folk?”

Ned went back to his desk. “I wrote to the Night’s Watch four weeks prior. They had elected a new Lord Commander last year, Jeor Mormont. I suggested a formal Warden’s visit to meet the Lord Commander, though we’ve met previously quite a number of times. The purpose of the visit would be to gauge their situation, their supplies and what assistance that the North might be able to provide. He responded quickly. Agreeing to the request. Four months from now, I’ll be leaving Winterfell for that visit.”

“My lord,” said Clark, an idea forming in his head. “May I accompany you?”

Ned gave him a piercing look. “Why?”

“Castle Black has a library. One that is barely touched, or so I imagine. I’m sure they’ll be willing to part with some of their volumes.”

“You know who their maester is?”

Clark sighed. “I do.”

Ned lowered his voice. “Do you plan to tell Aemon Targaryen about his great great nephew?”

“It’s tempting. Maester Aemon is a kind, wise old man and it would bring him joy to learn that Rhaegar’s son lives.” admitted Clark. “However, a secret becomes more dangerous if you reveal it, even to those you trust. Jon’s safety is not guaranteed if more and more people know it. So no, I will not tell Aemon at this point.”

“At this point?”

Aware that killing Petyr might have postponed King Robert’s death, Clark shrugged. “On his deathbed, perhaps. But not now, I promise.”

“So why do you want to come?”

“I wasn’t lying about the library. Castle Black is the most northern…well, castle of the Seven Kingdoms. There must be volumes in there that one wouldn’t find anywhere else in Westeros. About the White Walkers, Children of the Forest, all that. Tomes in the Old Tongue. And no one’s reading them. The Maester’s a blind man for God’s sake.”

There was a fixed silence as Ned stared him down. Clark relented.

“I also want to follow up on Craster.”

“You want to kill him.”

Clark sighed. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“If the Night’s Watch has us as their guest, we cannot eliminate their allies. Even the unsavory ones.”

“Craster is not their ally,” said Clark, a little louder than he meant to. He lowered his voice. “Craster is strengthening their enemy. He enjoys the protection of the Night’s Watch and goes behind them to the White Walkers. He needs to be eliminated.”

“How? How is Craster strengthening the White Walkers?”

Clark didn’t answer right away. He just couldn’t. Ned’s eyes bored into him.

“Remember your promise? Made only moments prior.”

Clark sighed. _God damn it._

“He’s giving them his sons.”

“What?”

“I don’t know how. But somehow Craster has reached an agreement with the White Walkers. Or he will very shortly. They spare him, his wives, his daughters, his keep…and in exchange, he gives them his sons. As soon as they’re born.”

The fire crackled. Clark forced himself to continue.

“Up in the North, in the Lands of Always Winter, the leader of the White Walkers waits. I don’t know his real name. He was a man thousands of years ago, but no more. He was given a moniker, the Night King. The sons of Craster are brought to the Night King and given to him. But he doesn’t kill or sacrifice them, not in the traditional sense. He changes them. When they’re young and malleable, he changes them into White Walkers.

“That’s how he was able to grow an army of that size. More lieutenants who traversed beyond the Wall, attacking Free Folk tribes and villages. I don’t know how many White Walkers the Night King currently has under him. I don’t know how many sons Craster has already sacrificed, if he has already. But if we allow Craster to live, his sons will enable the Army of the Dead to grow exponentially. That’s why I told you to kill him, even before I left two months ago.”

Lord Stark sat quietly through all of this, his eyes a calm storm. In Clark’s opinion, he was a little too calm. But then again, he hadn’t witnessed the Hardhome massacre.

“This is true?”

Clark nodded. “I’ve seen it. It begins in the eyes. The Night King places a finger to the babe’s face. He’s surprisingly gentle about the whole thing. They don’t even cry.”

He cleared his throat.

“If Craster doesn’t know what the Night King is doing exactly, he at least knows that he’s fucking over the Night’s Watch. And mankind as well.”

“Then why not reveal his treachery?” asked Ned. “Tell the Lord Commander what you’ve told me and let them deal with Craster.”

“Craster may be a disgusting, treacherous and horrible man,” said Clark. “But he’s still a man of the Free Folk. The Night Watch needs to start making peace with the Free Folk. It can’t start with them killing Craster. Craster is known as an ally to the Night’s Watch. How can you convince the other Free Folk to come to the table when they hear of his death by a bunch of crows?”

He went to the chair by the hearth and leaned against it.

“I know that Craster is not well-regarded by the Free Folk. But I don’t know if they’ll react badly to his death. It needs to be me. An insignificant man.”

Clark wasn’t sure if he believed all that. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if he could possibly convince Jeor Mormont of the White Walker threat just yet. There probably haven’t been any sightings and thus he had no cause to eliminate his only wildling ally.

“Where is Craster’s keep?” asked Ned.

“North of Castle Black. Not sure how far.”

“Is it more than a day’s walk?”

“Yes,” answered Clark blithely. He turned to see Ned’s face. It was quite incredulous. “Well, it’s not far. It’s not like I’m going up to the Lands of Always Winter. I can find out when I get to Castle Black, but it’s not an impossible journey.”

“How are you going to do this?” asked Ned, his tone bewildered. “A journey of probably several days? Alone beyond the Wall? It’s much colder up there than it is in Winterfell. You’ll freeze or starve before you even get near Craster.”

There was a silence in the solar. Clark walked from the chair back to the map, facing Ned.

“Lord Stark,” he began. “Trust me, when I say that I can handle the cold beyond the Wall. It’s no stranger to me. I’m not saying there’s no risk, but killing Craster is a gamble that could pay off immensely for the North. I don’t need you to understand how I’ll survive. All I need from you is your approval to accompany you to the Wall and an opportunity to go beyond, without the Night’s Watch knowledge if necessary. Will that be possible?”

They stared at each other for a solid while. Finally Ned breathed and nodded.

“Very well. Four months from now, you’ll accompany me and my men to the Wall. You’ll speak nothing of Jon to Maester Aemon. You’ll select some books for our library and when we leave to inspect Eastwatch, you’ll have your chance to disappear beyond the Wall, to face Craster.”

Clark nodded, smiling. “Thank you, Lord Stark. But I promise you, I won’t disappear. I’ll come back.”

Ned did not return his smile. “You shouldn’t be so confident. If what you warned me of is true, there are things beyond the Wall that one man cannot handle. You smile at the thought of entering that cold and murdering a man. Are you fully aware of what you’ve asked of me?”

The smile dropped from Clark’s face instantly. “Lord Stark, I was simply grateful that you acquiesced my request. I don’t mean to make light of what I must do.”

Lord Stark nodded. “All right then. I’ll speak to you later as the departure nears.” He went to his desk and sat down.

Clark gave a short nod and left, sensing the dismissal. He strode down the corridors, his mind wandering.

_Am I making too light of the situation? Minimizing the implications of my actions, dismissing the difficulty of carrying them out? Killing Petyr was horrifying and hard, but did it also embolden me too much? I got away with it. He hasn’t been dead a month and I’m already planning the next one, cheerful to go beyond the Wall. Into the cold that I’m pretty sure won’t affect me. What if I wake up one morning and my immunity’s gone? What if killing simply becomes harder and harder?_

_Or the opposite? What if it becomes even easier? Do I become as ruthless as Tywin? Destroying everything to shape a future that maybe wasn’t meant to be?_

Clark walked on, unable and unwilling to dismiss these thoughts. Sometimes there were days when he just couldn’t shake them.

* * *

During his workout that night, Clark heard the door creak open behind him. He was suspended from a ledge, fully extending preparing for a final pull-up. The intruder stayed by the door and he decided to finish before speaking.

He’d increased his repetitions and his arms were burning, protesting the abuse. However the trip beyond the wall was looming in his mind and it pushed him to be as physically fit as possible for that landscape, even if the beginning of spring would bar the worst cold. So ignoring his stress and leaning into that power gifted into his fingers, he brought himself up slowly and methodically. He stayed for a time, lifted the rest of his body and sat on the ledge, breathing heavily and looking to the open door.

Jon was at the door, his face questioning. Clark nodded.

“Hello Jon,” he called from the ledger, in between breaths. “How have you been these past two months?”

The boy shrugged. “I’ve been all right.”

Clark shoved himself off the ledge, landing lightly on the ground. “Did you come here for a spar?”

Jon nodded. “Aye.”

He followed Clark as they traveled from the stables to the training yard.

“Have you been training with Ser Rodrik every day?” asked Clark, as they entered the deserted area.

“And Robb. Theon too.” Jon added, a little too darkly.

“How’s their swordplay?”

They came to the racks with the wooden swords. Jon considered the question, his lips pursing.

“Robb’s good,” he said finally. “He’s not as fast as me though. I have to slow down for him.” He pulled his reliable practice sword out. “And Theon’s stronger than us both. A little faster than me.”

Clark selected his own sword. “Well, he is older. That will even out.” He strode out to the yard and took his position. “Do you not get on well with Theon?”

Jon lowered his eyes to the ground. Clark gently brought his sword to Jon’s chin, prompting it up.

“And you’re dead.” He dropped his arm, but Jon’s face remained on his. “Eyes up in the yard, always. I know Ser Rodrik taught you that at least.” He lowered his sword. “What about Theon, Jon?”

There was a slight jerk to Jon’s frame. He had fought the instinct to bow his head and won. Now he was just staring at Clark, and he could see for the first time in Jon’s eyes, an anger in his sadness. Not a full rage, but still something that would foster in his decision to leave Winterfell for the Night’s Watch as a teenager.

“He calls me bastard as much as he calls me Jon,” he said quietly. “I don’t like him.”

Clark still didn’t know whether or not he wanted Jon Snow to join the Night’s Watch again, given that he could take steps to avoid Jon’s death. There was misery at the Wall to be sure, but beyond that, Jon found people other than his siblings, black brothers and Free Folk alike, who accepted him unconditionally, based on his own merits and not just his presumed name. The boy before him wanted that community. A throne wouldn’t give him that.

However that could be decided at a different time. Jon’s eyes after that last statement couldn’t help, but lower. Clark let him brood for a few seconds before speaking.

“It’s cruel what Theon is doing,” he started as evenly as he could. “And it is natural that you should be angry by his insults…Jon, do you remember what I said to you about Theon during that feast when your father came home from the rebellion?”

Jon nodded. “His father and brothers are all gone.”

“They’re dead and Theon has to reckon with that. He’s now a hostage. He feels angry about that. And yet he and Robb get on well and Lord Stark treats him with dignity and that probably only confuses him more. Why am I starting to like my captors? What does that say about me? Am I truly Ironborn?

“People who are confused and angry usually lash out at vulnerable people. And now here’s you, a bastard, someone vulnerable, someone who will always be beneath him, in his eyes at least. You’re an easy target for his snide comments.”

“I don’t want to be a target,” said Jon, his eyes blazing. “I just want him to stop.”

Clark knelt before him. “Jon, he’s not going to stop. Not as long as he sees it causes you pain. Even if you manage to hide it, he’ll probably still continue.”

Jon breathed, the anger melting into something sadder. “Then what can I do?”

_Wear it like armor…_He didn’t know if it was the time to repeat Tyrion’s words to Jon. At least not the same phrasing. Tyrion could tell Jon himself several years on.

“It’s only yourself that you have to worry about. Theon’s attitude toward you is not your concern. If he calls you bastard, you have a choice. You either let it hurt you, send you into misery and strike the training dummies down to straw. Or you can let it go and realize that Theon’s insults and Lady Catelyn’s glares are their way of dealing with their pains.

“I’m not saying it’s right,” he continued, seeing Jon’s face. “They are wrong for taking out their pain on a vulnerable child. In a perfect world, they wouldn’t be able to do that. This isn’t a perfect world, Jon. Far from it. But you can make the choice to rise above it and dismiss their insults and their fears. It’s very difficult. But the more you let the word bastard slide off you instead of slapping you in the face, the easier it becomes. There will be a day when it’s just a stupid word for stupid people when they have nothing left.”

The expression on Jon’s face was difficult to read. It didn’t look happy, but it wasn’t angry anymore. Maybe just determined…

Clark stood. “Tell you what. I’ll see what I can do about Theon. I'll try not to mention you so it doesn’t look like you came crying to me…but I’ll see what I can do. Does that sound all right?”

Jon nodded.

“All right, then. Would you like to show me what you’ve learned in the past six weeks?”

The next five minutes were ferocious. Clark had never seen Jon spar like it before. The boy actually got a couple of hits in, something that hadn’t happened for half a year. It wasn’t out of anger though. Joy was beginning to spark in Jon’s eyes.

“Did you train with Arya like this?” asked Clark, rubbing his hip when Jon had struck him.

Jon shook his head, smiling. “I tried. She just keeps coming forward with the stick, trying to whack me. I’m trying to get her to stand on the defensive.”

Clark laughed. “Best of luck with that.”

“But she likes it though.”

“I told you she would.”

Jon’s smile quickly disappeared as he looked behind Clark. The boy backed up from Clark immediately, dropping his sword to his side.

Clark turned to see Ser Rodrik Cassel standing by the brazier, his hand resting easy on the hilt of his sword. His expression was inscrutable, his eyes piercing Clark’s own steadily. Determined not to be cowed, Clark nodded to the knight.

“Good evening, Ser Rodrik.”

Ser Rodrik gave a nod to the greeting and stepped forward, coming to a halt a safe distance away. Clark glanced at Jon, who kept his eyes on Ser Rodrik. A brief silence followed, as Ser Rodrik looked between the both of them.

“Well?” he said. “Do continue.”

Jon, after a few seconds of processing what he just heard, got into his starting postion. Clark hesitated, trying to discern the expression in Ser Rodrik’s eyes. The knight met his eyes evenly and Clark simply saw a calculated daring, neither friendly or hostile.

Ultimately it didn’t matter. Whatever Ser Rodrik was thinking, he was the true authority of the training yard. So Clark turned to Jon and took his position.

The spar began with them circling each other, Jon taking the first step. They circled for about ten seconds before Jon came forward with his first swing. Clark caught the sword with his and spun Jon away.

Jon recovered his footing quickly and swung again. And again and again. Each time he struck, Clark was there to greet his sword. He remained on the defensive, never taking the openings that Jon left. Something in him didn’t feel right about it, not in front of Ser Rodrik.

Eventually Jon must have realized this. He stopped and stood panting, sword at the ready, staring at Clark. They were both waiting for each other now.

_Okay, maybe just one move._

Clark stepped and jabbed his sword forward. Jon sidestepped it and countered, only to have his sword pushed away by Clark’s, coming back from the jab. The boy reacted smartly though, going with his sword and stepping out of the way to avoid Clark’s next swing.

Jon readied and struck again, more viciously than before. Clark could feel the jolt through his forearm.

“All right, that’s enough,” called Ser Rodrik. Jon relaxed immediately, backing down. “Lad, put those two swords away and go inside. You’re done training for tonight.”

“Yes, Ser Rodrik,” said Jon. Clark handed the wooden sword to Jon without a word. Jon put the swords away quickly and left, leaving Clark alone with Ser Rodrik.

The knight stepped up to Clark, staring at him directly in the eyes. Clark returned the favor. Thankfully the contest didn’t last long before Ser Rodrik spoke.

“Tiresias,” Ser Rodrik said. “I don’t believe that we’ve ever conversed at length. Man-to-man.”

“I suspect you’re right there, Ser Rodrik,” said Clark, adding the title a little too late.

“Well, I would amend that tonight, if you have the hour free.” Ser Rodrik took a breath, his whole frame easing. “What say you? Would you join me for a drink in Wintertown, Tiresias?”

The name rolled off his tongue easy enough, but he still sounded suspicious. Nevertheless, Clark didn’t see any advantage to refusing this request.

“Certainly, Ser Rodrik.” He reached for his jacket. “Would you be willing to wait for me at the gate, Ser? So that I may fetch my purse.”

Ser Rodrik waved the question away. “No need, Tiresias, no need. Tonight’s drinks come at the expense of yours truly.”

Clark pulled on his jacket, nodding. “Thank you kindly. After you then.”

A half hour later, Ser Rodrik and Clark clinked their mugs and toasted Winterfell, the Starks, the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion and the coming of spring. Ale coursed down his throat easily. He felt mildly embarrassed when he saw how Ser Rodrik has taken only a small sip of his drink.

“Not to worry, Ser Rodrik,” he nodded to the knight across from him. “I may drink quickly but not much. The ale you’ll purchase tonight won’t break you.”

Ser Rodrik shook his head, with a small smile. “I’m not worried about that, Tiresias.”

The knight’s smile did not reach his eyes and he didn’t speak further. Clark waited for a moment. He knew this trick. Silence prompts a nervous man to speak first more often than naught. Nevertheless, he broke the silence. He wasn’t in the mood for games tonight.

“What’s on your mind, Ser Rodrik? What do you wish to say to me, man-to-man?”

“Do you train with Jon often?” asked Ser Rodrik.

Clark nodded. “A few times every sennight. In the evenings when we’re both done with our day.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to learn how to fight with a sword and it seemed like Jon needed a friend.”

Ser Rodrik tapped the table. “He’s been teaching you?”

“He has. I had no experience with a sword before I came to Winterfell. I came to the yard one night and saw Jon training. I asked him for some help and he gave it. I’m no house guard or soldier or squire. Who else could I approach for beginning swordsmanship? Who’ll take a librarian seriously in that regard?”

“Only a gullible and lonesome boy,” answered Ser Rodrik.

“That’s not how I view it, Ser,” said Clark. He sipped his ale. “I wanted to learn how to use a sword and I wanted to raise the boy’s spirits. I found a way to do both.”

A group of farmers at the other end of the taverns started a song. Ser Rodrik’s brow furrowed at it, possibly unconsciously.

“Why did you come to Winterfell?” asked Ser Rodrik in a low voice.

“For work,” said Clark. “On Lord Reed’s recommendation.”

“For the library. A library which had been run adequately in the past with just the castle maester. A library which Lord Stark decided to expand after one secret conversation with you. He’d never shown any interest in such a venture before.”

Clark breathed steadily through his nose, his pulse threatening to throb too quickly.

“I wasn’t aware that you were so concerned with Winterfell’s library, Ser Rodrik. I’ve been here for a year. Never seen you in that tower.”

Ser Rodrik leaned forward.

“What did you say to Lord Stark?” he murmured.

“Something for his ears alone,” answered Clark, he hoped with some finality.

It didn’t work. Ser Rodrik continued.

“What did you say to him to let you continue to stay at Winterfell? To invent a job for you? To consult you immediately after he heard of the Greyjoy assault?”

“Have you asked Lord Stark this?”

“I’m asking you here. Now.”

“What do you believe, Ser Rodrik? That I threatened Lord Stark? That I blackmailed him into some foul arrangement? One in which I stay in Winterfell and improve a library? For fair wages? I’m not stealing the wealth of House Stark.”

“All I know is that you’re a charlatan,” said Ser Rodrik, his eyes blazing. “You’re not a man I trust. You say you’re a librarian. I don’t know any man of letters who could down Anthor Apperford in two hits.”

Clark didn’t blink. “The man was drunk and it took more than two hits.”

“He has a hundred pounds on you and you beat him, is all I heard.” Ser Rodrik took a draught. “Is that true?”

“What does my word matter, if you don’t trust me?” said Clark, wincing a little once he said it. He looked around the room. Their conversation remained unnoticed by the rest of the patrons. Most of the attention was toward the terrible singing of the farmers. Clark turned back to Ser Rodrik.

“Ser Rodrik, I don’t want to fight with you,” said Clark. “You’re right, in that Lord Stark essentially invented this job for me. The library is a project that isn’t urgent to the North but I’m doing my best with it. I came to Winterfell to belong somewhere and Lord Stark was kind enough to do that for me. I asked for work. He asked me my skills. I told him truthfully, reading, writing. I had also worked in archives for a time. And he gave me the library to revitalize. But I’m not here to sabotage the Starks or take advantage of Ned Stark’s famous honor. I work for my keep. You can talk to Maester Luwin if you don’t believe me.”

Ser Rodrik looked to the table for the first time. “I did,” he admitted. “He says you’re a hard worker, and you’re keen-minded.”

“That’s very kind of him.”

Clark took a sip. Upon lowering his cup, he saw that Ser Rodrik had fixed his eyes on Clark again.

“So, tell me truthfully, Tiresias; why did you have to speak to Lord Stark privately the first day you arrived? You could have asked for a job with the petitioners, presented the reference from Lord Reed then? What did you have to say to him that couldn’t be passed along?”

Clark leaned forward.

“I told him something that pertained to the safety of his family.”

“I am the master-of-arms of Winterfell. The Stark’s safety is my duty.”

“If Lord Stark wishes to tell you what I said, he may. But it’s not my place to say.” He leaned back. “I apologize, but that’s how it must be.”

Ser Rodrik didn’t speak for a while. He raised his tankard and drank. It didn’t give him enough inspiration to continue the conversation. So they sat in silence for a few minutes and Clark finished his ale.

“Shall I order another round?” he asked Ser Rodrik. “Or have you had enough of me man-to-man?”

After a beat, the knight waved the tavern girl over and had another round poured. They clinked their tankards again, without any toasts or salutes. The warm lager coursed through him and Clark dreamed of how delightful a cold drink would feel.

His eyes met Ser Rodrik’s over the tankard and he lowered his drink.

_So that’s two drinks I owe him._

“So Little Jon’s your first sword instructor?” asked Ser Rodrik.

Clark nodded. “He is.”

“You’ve never picked up a sword before?”

“A knife…well, had a knife. But yes, never held a sword.”

A small smile formed on the knight’s face. “Bit of a difference between a knife and a sword, isn’t there?”

Clark matched the knight’s smile. “Aye. There is.” He took another sip. “So, as master-of-arms and an honorable knight…how did I look?”

Ser Rodrik leaned forward. “Like an idiot who’s never used a sword before.”

That was a little crushing to the spirit, which Clark responded to with another sip. Ser Rodrik continued.

“You’re fast. Based on what I heard, you’re probably much faster than what you showed me tonight. You’ve gotten by on that speed and your form…well, it looks like the form you get from secondhand instruction from a young boy.”

Clark felt a need to defend Jon, but Ser Rodrik waved it away.

“Jon’s a talented lad. Better than most boys with two years on him. If he continues to train, when he’s grown, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with. That doesn’t mean he’ll be able to adequately instruct you. Right now, it shows. Your duels are between two beginners, trying to grow. You can’t help but take shortcuts. Warriors need discipline when they’re starting out. A little boy in want of a friend won’t be able to give it to you.”

There was a break as Ser Rodrik drank. Clark took it all in. It was more or less what he’d been telling himself from the beginning. He knew that he would have to move on to a sharper instructor if he wanted to survive.

“I would hate to tell Jon that I couldn’t spar with him anymore.”

“You can still spar with the boy, Tiresias. Jon Snow won’t be affected by your inadequate swordsmanship. I’ll keep him disciplined. But you need to find someone else as well. Someone you’ll allow to beat you down and build you up again. So you won’t be caught in a situation where your speed and agility are not enough. Do you understand?”

He wanted to nod and end the conversation. However, he knew that wouldn’t be constructive.

“Well, who’s gonna to teach me?” he asked. “I’m guessing not you.”

“Aye, that’d be a good guess.”

“I doubt there’s an instructor in Winterfell, who’ll make time for a librarian and his errant swordplay.”

Ser Rodrik leaned back. “I don’t know about that. I talked to a few lads about you. Discretely of course. The ones that saw you fight Anthor. They’re intrigued with you. My duty is the training of the soldiers of Winterfell. What they do with that training is their own business. As long as they conduct themselves with honor, it’s no concern of mine.”

“They wouldn’t lose their honor by training a charlatan?”

Their eyes met and for a solid time, they didn’t blink. Each resting their eyes easily on the other man. Finally Ser Rodrik spoke.

“You are a charlatan. I don’t have any doubt about that. I don’t know why you’re here in Winterfell and that does bother me. But, if Lord Stark is satisfied with what you’ve said to him, then I must be as well. It’s my way. Besides I don’t know an evil man who would put such time into cheering a lonely child.”

The walk back to Winterfell was quiet at first, with Ser Rodrik seeming quite content with the silence. They’d come to an unsteady truce. However, Clark was not quite satisfied. He wetted his lips and whistled softly.

It was a bit of a bastard rendition of the Barber of Seville…at least as much as he could remember from the Bugs Bunny cartoon. He only went on for about a minute before looking over to Ser Rodrik’s face. The knight’s face had tightened considerably.

“Are you not a music lover, Ser Rodrik?”

He gave a fierce shake of his head. “I’ve a low tolerance for it, Tiresias.”

“Duly noted.”

* * *

Clark stood in his small gym. He doubted he would have total privacy in this space for very long. With the construction surrounding the Broken Tower, there seemed to be not a single area of Winterfell that wasn’t being utilized for the project. Whether it be storage area, a work place or anything else.

He had just picked up his finished dagger from Mikken. The sheath was attached to his belt and he was running his fingers over the blade. It was beautiful Northern steel. Simple, unadorned, and strong. He knew that it wouldn’t hold to Valyrian steel, but it was still a significant upgrade from his last weapon.

Throwing his furs to his side, he faced a wooden pillar. He held the dagger by the tip, feeling the balance. He then gripped and threw it quickly. It lodged in the pillar, a little lower than he wanted.

_Not quite the accuracy I saw from Arya during the forgeplay between her and Gendry…but not bad._

He extracted the knife and sheathed it, before picking up his cloak and leaving the room, stepping out into the stables. Rod gave him a strange look. The lad was used to him going in and out of the small room. The sound of the dagger striking the wood was new though.

Clark nodded to Rod and proceeded out of Winterfell and into the town. He went off the main path to a patch of smaller cottages. Pulling up to the third one, he knocked. The door opened to reveal a spry woman who barely came up to his chest.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Hello there. My name is Tiresias. I’m a friend of Gord. Is he here?”

The woman brightened at the mention of her son. “He is. ‘Round the back.” A repetitive whack was sounding from the mentioned area.

“Thank you,” said Clark, before going around the small cottage. Gord stood with an axe, chopping firewood. The pile of wood already cut was so big, it looked comical.

“Gord!” he called. Gord jumped as he was beginning to swing and turned to see Clark.

“Tiresias,” he called back. “What you doing here?”

“Came to see you. Can you spare the time?”

“Aye” nodded Gord. “I can give you some. Wait a minute here, will ya?”

“All right.” He waited as Gord lodged the axe into the stump and wiped his face with a cloth

“You prepared to burn the whole house down, Gord? Your mother with it?” asked Clark, nodding to the huge wood pile.

“She chills easily,” responded Gord. “This winter was mild, Gods be praised, but still I like her to have enough.”

Clark stepped forward, examining to the pile. “This should do it.”

“Almost done. Now, how can I help ye?”

Hoping that Gord wouldn’t read the action as a threat, Clark unsheathed his dagger. Gord didn’t seem to worry though.

“That your new blade?”

Clark nodded, flipping the dagger and offering it to Gord. The big man took it, grasping it lightly, then firmly. He gave the blade a once-over, running his finger carefully along the edge.

“Mikken does good work,” he said appreciatively. “A true weapon over your last piece.”

“It is,” Clark said, taking a breath before his next sentence. “Gord, I don’t know how to use it.”

Gord paused from his appreciation of the dagger, fixing Clark with a stare before looking back to the knife. “Well, the sharp edge’s here. You hold it here…”

Clark rolled his eyes, but couldn’t stop a chuckle, especially at Gord’s smartass smile.

“I meant fighting. Gord…I need your help. I can skin an animal, throw it decently, I know a few places where men bleed more freely, but…if someone comes up to me and it becomes a fight between their weapon and mine…I don’t know how well I’ll fare.”

“Horseshit, man. I’ve seen you fight. Anthor couldn’t touch you.”

“That’s just fisticuffs...plus a foot to the face. What happens when we wield blades?”

Gord’s smile was slowly disappearing. “What about Jon? You and him, you spar quite a bit.”

Clark hoped that Jon wouldn’t take this the wrong way. “And we’ll continue to do so, as long as he wants. I like sparring with him. But I cannot wait until he’s grown to duel with a bigger opponent. I started sparring with Jon because I didn’t even know the basics of swordplay and now…now, I need something more. So, could you help me? Please?”

Anxiety filled him as he waited for Gord to consider the question. The Stark soldier crossed his arms as he did so.

“How often do you spar with Jon in the evenings? Is it a set schedule?” he asked finally.

Clark shook his head. “It’s not. One of us would usually approach the other. About three times each sennight.”

“Well, if you don’t want to stop sparring with the boy, you’ll need to set aside certain nights for you two. You want my help, our time together will need to be set around my duties. Is that all right?”

A weight left Clark’s chest.

_Ask and you shall receive…sometimes._

“Yes, yes, that’s all right.”

Gord picked up the axe again. “I’ll meet you in the training yard tomorrow before supper.”

“Before?” The training yard was usually full right before then. Soldiers and guards cleaned the equipment after a day’s use. “That’s a little bit of an unwanted audience, Gord.”

His concerns were waved away. “They’ll leave for supper before we get started. I’ll say I’ve got additional duties that night.” Gord stuck out his hand. “Does that sound all right?”

Clark shook his hand. “It does. Thank you, Gord, thank you. I’ll repay you somehow. I swear it.”

Gord laughed. “How? I earn more than you.”

“Fair point. See you tomorrow night.”

* * *

A week later, Clark wandered over to the archery range. Through the grapevine, he had heard that the young Greyjoy hostage spent his free afternoons there.

Sure enough, Theon stood with his bow taut and ready to fire, as tall and proud as the boy could muster. Clark stood in the shadows, letting him have his concentration. This was the one place where Theon Greyjoy, thinking himself alone, dropped his youthful bravado.

He released the arrow. Clark’s eyes managed to follow it to the target, where it stuck in the outer margins, along with the previous arrows.

Theon threw down his bow. “Piss and blood!” he hissed, his voice pitching high. He turned and froze, seeing Clark under the balcony.

Clark merely nodded. He strode past Theon toward the target and extracted all the arrows in the hard-packed straw. Once he was done, he walked back to Theon and deposited all the arrows in the standing quiver.

He finally looked to Theon, who was just looking like he didn’t know what to make of him.

“How old are you, Theon Greyjoy?”

Theon blinked and for a second, he seemed to want to challenge Clark, fixing him with a stare. However, Clark returned his look and waited patiently. Finally, the boy relented.

“Nine.”

“Well, Theon, I’ve never seen a nine-year-old marksman before.” He glanced to the target. “At least, all your arrows managed to hit the straw and stick. Your opponent is now critically injured, probably be dead come evening.”

That didn’t elicit a laugh from Theon. Clark sighed.

“That gape never works. My name is Tiresias, by the way.”

“I know what your name is,” Theon muttered.

“Well, at the risk of sounding patronizing, the point is, you shouldn’t get frustrated because you’re not an expert yet. That’ll come with time, practice and more delightful swears. My personal favorite is Fuck you, you fucking fuck.”

That got a wide-eyed response from Theon.

Clark opened his bag and pulled out two small tomes.

“I was going over the works detailing the Stark history. Found some works that could interest you, if you find it in your spare time to crack open a book.”

Theon looked only barely interested, but the sight of a tall adult handing you something is hard to resist when one’s still a child. He glanced at the top one.

“_The War Across the Waters_,” he read out loud, his interest piquing at the title.

“It involves one who shares your namesake,” remarked Clark. “Theon Stark, who defeated the greatest Andal invader, Argos Sevenstar and raised a fleet to take the Three Sisters and attack the Fingers…with the bloody corpse of Argos attached to the bow of his flagship.”

Theon’s eyes widened at that. Clark raised a warning finger.

“Don’t get too excited by that, Theon. That accounting is not for you to develop a bloodlust.”

The boy’s eyes fell and he raised the second tome.

“And this?”

“_The Sailing Wolf_. An accounting of Brandon the Shipwright. A Stark who loved to sail and who raised the Northern naval fleet to a mighty strength.”

“His son burned all the ships,” murmured Theon.

“You know of him?”

“My father…” Theon stopped himself, looking at Clark with wide eyes.

“Your father?” asked Clark, not too gently. He knew the boy had no desire to be coddled.

Theon swallowed. “My father liked to laugh about it. About Brandon the Burner. How he destroyed the ships. How the wolf king crippled the North through his tears. He was a king, and he was weaker than a woman.”

The boy’s voice grew quieter. But if Theon Greyjoy was in danger of tears, he didn’t show it. Not to Tiresias nor to any resident of Winterfell. To any man in that regard.

Clark sighed. “Brandon the Burner may have been a king. He also was a son grieving for his father. He didn’t have to destroy the ships though. It was a grand fleet by many accounts.” He tapped the tome in Theon’s hands. “This is just one of them, more of a cheery retelling. What do you say? Enough to chance a read?”

Theon looked over the tomes again before nodding.

“Good,” said Clark. “I want those back in the same condition, mind you. You’re welcome to take as many books from the library as you want. But for the sake of my sanity, please handle them carefully. Agreed?”

Theon nodded, placing the two tomes on the table next to him. Clark picked up the bow, running his hands over it.

“A little small for me,” he said. “Do you mind if I borrow your target for a round of arrows?”

Surprise ran over the boy’s face. “What?”

“Your bow and arrows? May I borrow them for shooting?”

Theon’s smile came back, with mild arrogance lining it. “You dabble in books. What do you know of archery?”

Clark shrugged. “I suppose we’ll find out.” He unclasped his cloak and removed it, placing it and his bag on the table.

It wasn’t his first time at the archery range in Winterfell. He had already run his brain dry, trying to remember all the tips he had picked up at Boy Scout camp. All it was now was practice. The arrows he shot weren’t humiliating, but his progress was slow.

_Dear Lord, please make me look somewhat competent._

He set his feet and nocked an arrow.

_Don’t take your time. That’s one thing you’ll won’t have in battle. Thanks for the tip, Anguy._

The arrow was released along with his breath.

And it wasn’t a bad shot. It was quick, sure and stuck in the third margin from the center. Whoever would have been on the receiving end of that arrow would have been quite hurt.

He turned to Theon with a shrug. The arrogance was still there, but it was more tempered.

“Aye, I know,” said Clark. “Not my strong suit. But I work on it.”

“I shoot better than what you saw,” said Theon. “I really do.”

“I believe you,” said Clark. “Robb and Jon say you’re the best archer among them. I hear you regularly hit the center.”

He nocked another arrow.

“I also hear you’re a bit of a prick.”

He released the arrow. It hit the second margins this time, right of center. Clark turned back to see Theon’s expression. It was more sober and a little defensive.

“I don’t blame you,” Clark said. “Well, not that much, but I do understand. My father and siblings may not have been killed in a rebellion. But I do know what it’s like to lose everything you once knew and to be an outsider in the North.”

He picked up his third arrow, nocked it, pulling the string back.

“I also miss the sea as well. I grew up around water and it’s…well, it’s beautiful here. But there’s always something missing.”

The arrow hit near his second one. As he pulled for his fourth arrow, he saw Theon’s face. His guard was up, but he hadn’t run away.

“I’m sure you knew that I wasn’t a Northerner?”

“You’re not a prisoner,” said Theon.

Clark shook his head.

“No…no, I’m not.” He lowered the bow and arrow. “I suppose I wouldn’t know what’s worse for you. Having suspicious and mean eyes on you for your father’s rebellion…or being told you’re lucky to be Lord Stark’s prisoner.”

Theon’s eyes widened before he could stop them. He quickly looked away, but he stayed put. Clark raised his bow and fired. The arrow entered the first margin just left of center.

“Neither.”

“Excuse me?” asked Clark.

Theon swallowed. “Never mind.”

Clark reached for the final arrow. He didn’t nock it though.

“I suppose it’s also challenging for you. You really like Robb Stark. He’s your friend. You like Lord Stark. His strength is unlike your fathers. It draws you and you hate that. What am I doing? Growing cozy with the enemy of my family.”

“I said never mind,” insisted Theon, his voice raising slightly. The defense was raised again.

Clark rubbed his temple. A little too much, too soon.

“Theon, I gave you those tomes because I wanted you to see something before it was too late. Before you became more confused. There is a place here for you at Winterfell. Maybe it’s a little tense now. But the rebellion is over. You’re not betraying your father or brothers, because you’ve become friendly with the heir of Winterfell. Your grandfather certainly wouldn’t have thought so.

“You’re a Greyjoy. You’ll always be a Greyjoy and nothing will change that. But if you wish, you can be something else too. As the years go by, you can become a rock in the lives of these people. You can be valued. You can be loved.”

Clark turned to the target and shot his final arrow. It didn’t quite hit center, but it was only a few inches off. He offered the bow to Theon.

“Or you can grow into a bigger asshole. It’s your choice.”

Theon took the bow wordlessly. Clark walked and extracted his arrows from the target. When he returned, Theon was still in the same spot, gazing at the bow, not really seeing it. Clark placed the arrows back in the quiver and fastened his cloak.

“When was the last time you wrote to your sister, Theon?”

That brought the boy out of his daze. He shook his head.

“I haven’t.”

Clark picked up his bag. “If I were you, I would. It might save you some trouble down the road. When you’re searching for some balance. If she gives you grief for becoming too Northern. Not to mention that it’d be nice to actually correspond with remaining family members. She probably misses you.”

Theon’s eyes fell to the ground. “She’s fat and ugly.”

“Didn’t realize your family had to be pretty to remain family. Besides, Theon,” said Clark, kneeling down to his level. “You’re nine and you know nothing of women.”

He smiled and clapped Theon on the shoulder, before standing to walk away. He turned though a second later.

“Theon, could you do me a favor?”

The boy looked at him warily.

“Would you treat Jon with a bit more respect? Not call him a bastard?”

A small sneer formed on Theon’s face. “He is a bastard.”

“Aye and you’re jealous of him.”

Theon blanched. “I’m not jealous.”

“He’s Lord Stark’s blood. Talented with a sword. He’s a good kid. Quite a few people in Winterfell like him and Robb loves him. He’s his brother.” Clark had a certain knack to deal with angry children. Speaking shortly and calmly. He thought of his niece again. For the first time in weeks.

He sighed and put that thought aside, trying not to show how much it saddened him.

“It’s natural, but trust me. If Robb comes to see you as his brother, he’ll have enough love for the two of you and everyone else. If you don’t like Jon personally, you don’t have to be around him. Though I would be kinder. Jon’s a good friend to have.”

Theon’s eyes were to the ground again. Clark tapped his bag.

“Thank you for allowing me to shoot. It was very fun. I hope to see you in the library, Theon. Enjoy the books.”

He turned and walked away. He could feel Theon’s eyes on his retreating back.

Was that a conversation that would benefit Theon? He honestly didn’t know. He tried to be kind, unpatronizing and constructive. He hoped it worked. He wanted the friendship he saw in the show to grow. To see Robb and Theon and the rest of the Starks enjoy their time together.

He certainly didn’t want the young boy in the yard to grow up to be Ramsay’s plaything. Broken men could be very strong if they are healed, but it’s not a path that one willingly would go on. And it wasn’t one that Clark had the heart to set for someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys!
> 
> So the moment is here when I warn you that next week's chapter will be the last for a couple of months. As I said before, my rhythm is more writing a whole lot and editing as I publish. I tried, but my schedule won't allow for simultaneous editing and writing.
> 
> Thank you so much for your understanding and your kudos and comments as well. See you next Monday!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay readers, so this is the last chapter for a few months. Now I will actually have time to write what I've outlined, which is always very fun.
> 
> Thank you so much for your kudos and comments. I said before in my notes, that I realize that stories based around original characters are not the most popular. Which I totally understand, we all want to play with the familiars. So believe me when I say that I appreciate your response and kindness to The Prophet From Maine.
> 
> I hope you guys have a great holiday. Please travel safe. And I will see you at some point in 2020!

Clark woke up in a flop sweat, his throat swollen. He sat up slowly, trying to calm himself. Eventually the pressure in his throat lessened and he swallowed. He rubbed his brow, still slightly panting.

“Fu…,” he murmured, not bothering to finish the curse.

Rain was pounding against the window and he could hear thunder in the distance. Official spring showers. A white raven arrived from the Citadel two months ago. The brief winter was over. The cold was still here though, especially further north. Beyond the wall, this rain would have been snow.

Clark climbed out of bed. He had no idea what time it was. He walked over to the basin and grabbed the pitcher. He drank heavily, finishing it with a sigh. Glancing to the window and the storm outside, he crawled back into bed.

After twenty minutes or so, he accepted that attempting to fall back asleep was futile. He was too tired to sleep…if that made any sense. Plus, if he fell asleep, she might be there again, hanging, her red hair blowing in the harbor wind…

He got up and by candlelight, constructed a fire to keep him company. As it grew, he blew out the candle and sat on his pillow in front of the flames.

The whore in Gulltown had occupied his dreams frequently for the last few weeks. It was odd, at least he thought so. Upon his return from Gulltown and the first two months back, he had hardly thought on it at all or let it consume him. The guilt of her death or the horror of taking a man’s life by his own hand didn’t linger in his mind.

However, in the last month, his dreams began to take him through the harbor again. Sometimes she was there. Sometimes she wasn’t. A few times, he was walking on a country road and she was hanging on the side

Once when he was awake, he realized with a start that the hanging red-haired whore who had borne a resemblance to Catelyn Stark was a very possible lookalike for Lady Stoneheart. Not that he was particularly thrilled to make that connection…

As for Littlefinger…all things considered, his guilt was easy through to work through. He didn’t regret killing him. He knew what the man would do if left unabated.

His hands had begun to tremble though when he grasped a sharp knife. Not that often but still. There was a dinner last week where he made to cut his beef…and he couldn’t sink the blade into the meat, the point of the knife shaking slightly in his enclosed fist. Barth the brewer noticed and inquired after his health. Clark merely shook his head and cited a long day. He tried again, that time successfully.

The next night, he spent hours in the training yard, throwing and working his new dagger. Until he was sure that the same hesitancy wouldn’t rear its head at an inappropriate moment. At least as sure as he possibly could be.

He just wasn’t a badass. Didn’t feel like one. He knew he was blessed with new talents and he could keep a calm enough head, but he still hated the idea of killing. He couldn’t even play football as a kid because he didn’t like hitting people. Obviously he’d changed a little on that front but it was still something he didn’t like.

The crackling of the fire combined with the storm outside made for a meditative atmosphere. He felt the anxieties in his mind lessen as he focused on the dancing flames, the shadows across the stone, the heat on his bare chest…

He winced and brought his hand to his shoulder. Gord had gotten him good the other day in training. If he was allowed to move as he wished and follow the instincts screaming in his head, the spars might have ended differently...

However, for the last three months, he imposed the handicap. He couldn’t twirl away, duck, step aside or any way dodge the oncoming attacks. It was all parry, deflect and counter. There would be a day when his speed failed him and he had to defend on actual skill with his sword. If he even had a sword at that point…

Gord, for all his amiability, was a stringent instructor. He was aggressive in duels and actually terrified Clark the first few times. He was strict on Clark’s form, but also had enough practical experience to know when to throw formality out the window.

They also worked with his new dagger, incorporating grappling, quick draws, misdirection and learning the vital points. Obviously, all of this was done slowly and carefully. Clark would have hated to have faced Gord’s mother after harming her boy.

Clark negotiated for a few days off in which he, Gord, and a few other soldiers went on a hunt through the Wolfswood. It was a strange sight to see the skinny librarian ride out with the soldiers and it was only on the word of Gord that he was able to tag along. When asked further, Clark simply shrugged and said he missed hunting in Essos.

The traps that he had learned from the crannogmen were still fresh in his mind. He practiced them every so often and actually used a few successfully on his excursion to Gulltown. However he wanted more experience outdoors before he attempted to sneak beyond the Wall. He may be immune to the cold, but he still needed food.

He also had never hunted big game before. At first, he was apprehensive about this as he rode into the Wolfswood. Could he really down a beast with an arrow? Then he figured at least by starting with a bow and arrow, that he wouldn’t know the relative ease of a rifle.

They set up camp in a clearing that was familiar to them. A few of the other soldiers wanted him to stay and watch the horses, but he put his foot down. All with a calm smile, of course.

“Have you actually ever shot anything?” asked Tadd, who had come along, to Clark’s displeasure. “Not including rabbits or anything smaller?”

Clark remained seated and continued to sharpen his arrowheads. He had picked up the technique from the Winterfell archers.

“Don’t need an arrow for rabbits. Traps work just fine,” he muttered coolly. “Don’t concern yourself with me, Tadd. You might want to focus on yourself. Crashing through the bushes like that, you’ll scare any animal away.”

Tadd was about to retort, when Gord came to his rescue, yelling at everyone to get to sleep, that the hunt was to begin right at daybreak.

At dawn, Gord, Clark and a couple of others in their group, crept west through the forest. Here…what had happened in the Neck, seemed to happen here as well. The night when he had met Dallan, Martan and Annag. Their first indication was a noise and a scent in the darkness…

Clark was by no means a morning person in Maine, but here the forest seemed to come alive. His senses were all on high alert. He could see small animals against their camouflage hundreds of yards away. The sounds of the birdsong were distinct to him and he could tell how many they were, where they sat.

And the smells…not all of it was pleasant, mind. He was alone in the forest with a bunch of men, but things were coming through his nasal cavities that he just didn’t register before. The scent of the wind, the moss, the minerals in the dirt…it was incredible. And it caused him to break away from the group, walking northwest.

“Tiresias, what are you doing?” hissed Gord.

Clark stood facing northwest, letting the wind breeze across his face, taking it in. He turned to the others.

“There’s something out there in that direction. Not far and we’re downwind of it.”

“The tracks lead west.”

“We can always come back and follow if this doesn’t pan out, but there’s something out there,” insisted Clark, his voice dropping to a whisper. He readied his bow and extracted a couple of arrows in preparation. “Well?”

It took a little more convincing, but finally they agreed to check it out. They quieted their steps on Clark’s recommendation and marched slowly northwest. Ten minutes went by and he could sense their annoyance growing, even Gord was looking at him a little antsy. Clark wasn’t deterred though. It was close…

He raised his hand and crouched to the ground, the others following him. He snuck up to a fallen tree. Gord came up to him, looking to where Clark was staring.

“I don’t see it,” he breathed, shaking his head.

Clark pointed, and Gord squinted, following his finger. It took a minute and it had to move, but finally Gord saw it too. A beautiful, fat stag was walking calmly south. It hadn’t noticed them.

Gord alerted the others and a couple extracted their bows too. No one else talked. Clark hadn’t moved, his bow was already in front of him, his arrows resting against his leg. Once the men were hidden themselves, he felt Gord come behind him.

“You found it. Do you want the first shot?” whispered Gord.

After a beat, Clark nodded. It was better to take his first shot now, rather than beyond the wall without any support. Gord signaled to the others that Tiresias was going to shoot first and turned back to his librarian friend.

“Get to the edge. I’ll spy and let you know when it’s about to enter your range.”

Clark nodded and crept to the edge of the fallen tree, still out of sight from anything coming from the north. He felt Gord behind him. The man moved quite silently for someone his size.

“You ever shot a stag before?” Gord murmured.

Deciding for honesty, Clark shook his head. He knew that Gord wouldn’t tell the others.

“Aim for the lung, his broadside. If he keeps going that way, he’ll give you a nice shot. Tap you once to nock and draw. Another tap to shoot. All right?”

Clark nodded. Gord checked that they were still downwind and raised his head to peer over the fallen tree. Clark positioned himself and readied his arrow. Ever since his conversation with Lord Stark about heading beyond the Wall, he’d spent some part of every evening in the archery range. He’d improved, definitely but he had never shot anything living.

He stared at the forest, where his target would be coming into sight shortly. Gord hadn’t moved yet, and so he waited. The birdsong continued merrily and insects spoke. No indication to the stag that an amateur hunter was waiting to kill him. All for the sake of practice.

A couple of minutes went by. The stag was taking its time. Finally, it came into view but it was still too far. It was a beautiful creature, foraging in the new spring foliage for food.

It continued south. When it was thirty yards away, Gord gave him a light and silent tap on the back. He nocked his arrow and drew. The drawing of the bowstring was slightly prominent in the quiet forest. The stag raised his head to listen, but it didn’t flee.

That’s what killed it. Clark released his arrow and hit the side of the stag. It jolted for a second before it went down. Nocking another arrow, Clark stepped forward with Gord. The others followed right behind, a few voicing their congratulations.

“Was that all right?” muttered Clark to Gord, out of earshot from the others.

Gord approached the stag carefully.

“He’ll die soon enough,” Gord declared, before looking up and seeing the look on Clark’s face. He cleared his throat. “Course, it’ll go quicker. Nice stab through here.”

He tapped the spot. Clark dropped his bow and drew his dagger.

_First blood this blade will taste is stag…hope this doesn’t mean I’ll be killing Baratheons…_

Clark came to where Gord was crouching. He placed the tip to the indicated spot and pushed. It entered easily enough. Mikken did good work after all. Clark peered over to the stag’s face, to his dark eyes with quickly draining spirit.

_I’m sorry. Thank you for your meat and skin._

There was an American Indian tribe who apologized and thanked the animals they claimed in their hunts. At least that’s what he thought. He couldn’t remember the name. Could be total nonsense for all he knew. It just felt right though. The cheers that went through their hunting crew as they surrounded the dead stag didn’t sit too comfortably for him.

However that all soon abated. The hunters started to clean the stag. Clark watched their work with an attentive eye. He followed the butcher’s work sometimes in Wintertown, but he was still nervous when it came to hunting his own food. He feared poisoning himself or wasting the animal he killed.

The stag was in capable hands however, and so he and the others feasted that night. It honestly didn’t taste that good to Clark but he pressed on, chewing slowly and passing on numerous requests to recount his track and kill. However there was one question that kept coming up.

“All right, all right,” slurred one soldier, lowering his flask. “No horseshit. How the fuck d’you know where that stag was?”

The soldier stood. Gord steadied him, so he wouldn’t topple into the fire.

“He’s coming toward…toward us! So you didn’t track him. Didn’t follow hooves…I’d seen hooves…so how?”

Thankfully the man didn’t sound jealous, just bewildered. Clark shrugged and picked his teeth.

“I imagined I was a stag. A great hairy horny fellow.” That’ll earned a few drunken chuckles. “And I asked…why would I be right now?”

He extracted a little sinew.

“Northwest seemed like a good place to be.”

The answer was stupid, but it gave him another laugh and the soldier waved it away and took another swing from his flask. Clark picked up his waterskin and drank, trying to ignore that more than one member of the group was staring at him, not willing to accept the joke and finding his miraculous ability to find game from seemingly nothing more than a little concerning.

_It doesn’t matter. I’ve gone hunting. I can find food if there is any beyond the Wall._

He still had a month before Lord Stark’s excursion to Castle Black. He hadn’t heard from Lord Stark since he gave permission to come. As far as he was aware, no one in the castle knew that he was going along.

Back in his room, Clark yawned. The fire was down to its embers now. The recounting of the hunt had brought back his desire to sleep. The earliest greys of dawn were not yet present. He had time to sleep before the day began.

He crawled back into bed, pulling the covers over, feeling the sleep obliterate his drowsy thoughts…

_Plenty of time to sleep. To prepare. To find…a way. A way in which we all don’t fucking die._

* * *

A week later, Clark felt something he hadn’t felt since he had woken up in Westeros. His throat itched and a gulp of fresh water didn’t nothing for it.

So it was a sore throat. And Clark felt his mood darken. He hated them, but just went about his business, though he avoided others. It would pass quickly. He supposed he couldn’t ask for total immunity in this world from his mysterious all-powerful benefactor.

_First the sore throat, then the runny nose and congestion and then we end it with a quick cough. Easy._

However that was not the case. The sore throat was gone quickly enough, but what replaced it was nothing like Clark had ever felt.

The third day of the illness, Clark woke up and made to get out of bed. Except he couldn’t. Not on his first try. He propped himself up, prompting a coughing fit. He sat in bed for a long while, trying to get his breath back. He glanced at the rising sun through the window. He didn’t have a set time to be in the library, but he needed to get going.

He fumbled into some clothing and made for breakfast. At least he couldn’t be chilly anymore.

Managing to get to the kitchens without leaning on the walls, he tried to focus but all the smells just made him want to vomit. He finally just grabbed a half loaf of rye bread and practically ran out, almost stumbling into Mal.

“Watch it!”

“Sorry, Mal, sorry…” he mumbled. He blinked and she came back into focus.

The annoyance slid from her face as she got a look at his face.

“You all right, Tiresias?”

Clark blinked. An “Aye” was on the tip of his tongue, but it wouldn’t come out. The intolerance for bullshit was battling it out with the stoicism. Both traits were heavily encouraged in the North. Right now, Clark was too tired to referee that fight.

So he mumbled incoherently and turned to leave. A firm but gentle hand grasped his elbow.

“Can you say you’re all right, Tiresias?” asked Mal, her brown eyes boring into his. At least he thought they were brown. The world was beginning to swirl.

“Tiresias?”

The world righted and Clark opened his eyes to see Mal still there. Otis had joined her from his perch outside. A large torso appeared behind them. He raised his eyes to see Hodor, staring down at him in concern.

“Hodor?” the halfgiant asked.

Hodor’s face began to swim. Clark turned back to Mal again.

“I’m sor…I’m sorry, Mal,” he began. His legs were beginning to tremble, his head starting to nod. “I can’t…my…I’m…”

He blinked…and Mal’s face was replaced with dirt and people’s shoes. There was a weight on him…

_What is happening to me?_

He blinked again. He was gliding through hallways of stone. It was so peaceful. He heard more than felt his teeth chattering. There was someone above him as he was floating above…they held the…held the…

_Damn…what are these things called again…oh right, doors.._

Another blink brought him to a more familiar place. He wasn’t too far gone not to remember his bed. Though he didn’t remember his boots being removed…or his trousers…

A glow in the room grew…the fireplace…a young woman crouched before the growing light. He tried to voice his immunity to cold, but a groan escaped his mouth. A heavy hand patted his shoulder.

“There there, man.” He couldn’t place the voice, but it was very friendly.

Someone closed the curtains, pronouncing the glow even more. A weight fell upon him…another blanket…he opened his mouth…

“My…my work…Maester Luwin…”

“Someone is going to speak to Maester Luwin now.” Mal’s face focused and Clark saw the fire reflected in her brown eyes. “He’ll come in and look at you soon. Can you stay awake a little longer?”

Clark tried to answer in the affirmative, but he couldn’t. Mal saw the answer in his eyes though. Her face was beginning to blur again.

There was a light pressure on his arm.

“Sleep, Tiresias, sleep.” The pressure left. The last words heard were left on the surface as Clark dove deeper and deeper…

* * *

_He was traveling down a country road cloaked in fog. A strange feeling was coursing through him. It made his breath hitch, his fingers twitch…_

_Was it…was it cold? It’d been so long since he’d felt a chill…_

_The fog was so thick he could barely see the dirt by his feet. It also quieted all that surrounded him. Sounds came sparingly...a rustle of tall grass…a sigh of wind…the call of a bird…_

_He continued to walk; the thuds of his boots dulled to echoes. The air before cleared slightly…a mane of red hair hovered above and beyond…_

_Gallows stood on the side of the road. The woman was there, hanging limp, heavy. As she has and always will. The rope creaked with her slight turning. Tiresias looked to her face. Had he ever really taken a good look at her face?_

_Her face was gone. Her skull was all that was left. The rest of her body, white and tinged with deathly blue, was there. But the yellowed skull wore the beautiful red hair…_

_The urge to walk vanished. There was no country road beyond this. He knew that. The fog was comforting. It felt like a place to forget. Would he even see the hanging woman after enough time had passed?_

_Another bird’s call echoed through the fog, from beyond the gallows. He turned to see something slight and dark pierce the thick mist. A large raven landed on the hanging woman, causing the corpse to swing back and forth. It pecked at her flesh…_

_Tiresias didn’t protest this. It was good meat…good meat…where had he heard that before?_

_The raven turned its gaze to the man below. It dropped from the hanging woman and settled on the road. It clawed the dirt and stared up at Tiresias. He met the raven’s eyes. All three of them._

_He looked back up. The hanging woman had vanished. The fog was all they had now. He looked back to the three-eyed raven, who continued to stare. It had turned quite still…_

_A glow began to grow from behind. He turned and saw the light from a distant fire. He stepped forward, the white fog giving way to an increasing darkness surrounding the flames…_

_The raven called farewell to him. He turned to see it fly away into the fog. That glow became more and more pronounced. The darkness deeper and deeper…_

Clark blinked. He was laying in his bed, his body dulled from sleep, weak from illness. The fire crackled gently in his room. The chills from his chest were gone.

He really had to pee.

It took a few minutes but he summoned the strength to right himself and dress somewhat decently for a trek to the latrines.

The wall was a solid support as he walked. From his room through the hallway. He took several breaks. Wiped his forehead.

_Why the hell am I sweating?_

He caught his breath and continued to totter along. He finally reached the latrines and relieved himself, bracing against the back wall, his arm shivering.

_Was that your introduction, Three-Eyed Raven? I suppose you know of me now._

Howland Reed’s warning about dreams echoed in his mind. It could have been a coincidence. A ripple from the show that just resurfaced in his head. Was that it? Or was the old man in the tree really reaching to see him?

_Is that why I’m so damn sick? I’m no greenseer. Can I even see you in dreams? Perhaps only the kind of delirious dreams that belong to the bedridden?_

He finished and went to the door. There was no sink to wash his hands and it was raining out. He caught rain in his hands to rub together. It felt only more unclean in a way.

_Did you do this, old man? Did you…_

“Tiresias? Is that you?”

He turned from the door, his hands still dripping from the rain. A figure came forward from the shadows. She was in her night shift, wrapped in a shawl, her hard shoes echoing through the hall.

Clark nodded, his head heavy coming up. He leaned against the door frame. The woman came through the darkness. He blinked and saw her brown eyes staring incredulously at him.

“Mal…” he slurred as a greeting.

Mal strode forward and shut the door immediately. The platter of rainfall was dulled to a pleasant drone. Clark smiled at the sound.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Mal demanded, her voice keeping to a harsh whisper.

He pointed to the entrance to the latrines. Mal followed his finger.

“Is there no chamberpot in your room?”

Clark gritted his teeth. “I don’t like…I don’t like people handling my piss…or my…my shit.”

That sentence winded him. The wall was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Mal’s hands reached out and steadied him. She looked to the latrines and then back to him. She seemed to be swallowing reprimands.

“Tiresias,” she said. “I need you to stand here. Can you do that for a bit? Not fall or sit down?”

Clark gave a nod. He was positioned well, as long as his feet didn’t slip…

“Wait here,” Mal muttered, before she disappeared into the latrines herself.

The rain kept him company. It seemed to steadily increase in ferocity, cleansing Winterfell. No birdcalls would reach him until the weather cleared. No hawks, no robins, no eagles, no crows…

The thought saddened him slightly.

Mal’s hands were on him again, taking his arms. He blinked and he was standing free of the wall. Mal was at his side, her arm around his waist and holding his arm over her shoulder. They were walking slowly back.

He focused all remaining mental energy to keep his feet moving and from bringing Mal down to the floor. She was strong though. His tall frame didn’t seem to bother her.

_Had she done this before? _

The question remained stuck in his mind. He didn’t have to energy to voice it and he quickly lost the desire to do so.

His foot caught the floor and he began to stumble. Mal caught him and steadied him.

“’S all right,” she muttered. “Just down the corridor here and you can lay in bed. Come on.”

The prospect of disappearing into sleep again was very appealing. He hoisted his head and leaned gently into Mal, who half-carried him the rest of the way.

Luckily, he left the door unlocked. He actually didn’t know where his key was. It must have been removed when he first collapsed…

_Wait…who undressed me?_

Mal dropped Clark onto the bed and crouched to remove his boots. He closed his eyes and opened them. He was now righted in bed, under the covers. Mal was bending over the hearth, adding a log and rebuilding the fire. He felt like he was sinking…

He blinked again and Mal stood, holding the chamberpot by the handle.

“Now listen to me, Tiresias and listen well. When you have to relieve yourself, you use this. All right? I don’t care if you’re embarrassed. Until you can walk to the privy and back, without leaning on someone to do it, you piss in this. Do you understand?”

Has she ever cursed before? Tiresias couldn’t tell…neither could Clark. Neither could remember.

“Tiresias” she said. “Can you say you understand?”

He must have given a nod after that. She placed the chamberpot down below again and sighed, her frustration replaced with exasperation.

His breath was steadying again. Sleep was calling to him. He felt a hand on his forehead. It was very kind. The glow from the flames was darkening.

“Now stay in bed. And sleep,” said a soothing voice above him.

_Who was in his room again?_

“Stay out of the rain. Sleep.”

* * *

Clark slept for two days. He came to periodically during those two days, to relieve himself in the chamberpot, to drink some water and broth, but he always fell right back asleep.

It seemed to pass quickly for him. Maester Luwin was there in the morning and evening to check him. A scullery maid brought more wood for the fire. It was boiling in the room. Hals got him out of the clothes he wore for his midnight excursion. Mal fed him broth. She allowed him to try and operate the spoon on his own, but his motor skills were not cooperating. With his arms like lead, he was propped up and fed.

He was too tired to feel infantilized by the whole thing. Often he fell asleep during the meals and exams. Truthfully, in the haze, after over a year of living in Westeros with the weight of what was to come, he found himself glad at times to be coddled. To be taken of. To simply sleep. Though he did worry a little that he would not be able to trek north with Lord Stark’s entourage in two weeks’ time.

That worry abated on the third day. He was still exhausted, had very little energy but there was something different about it. He felt significantly less groggy. He knew, or at least strongly suspected, that one more night of sleep would bring him relatively back to normal. His illness would vanish as mysteriously as it appeared.

When Mal came with his breakfast, he was able to feed himself.

“Mal?” he called afterwards. She paused, at the door with his empty bowl. “Thank you. For everything.”

She took the gratitude in, nodding her head. “You’re welcome.” She opened the door. “You still need to stay in bed until Maester Luwin says you’re all right.”

“Yes, ma’am,” murmured Clark, but she was already gone.

Maester Luwin did come by for a quick checkup. He had only a few minutes before the children began their lesson.

“Well, it’s certainly an improvement over the last few days,” he said as he gently pulled down Clark’s eyelid for an examination. “You’re lucid now at any rate. How do you feel?”

Clark raised his hand and dropped it nonchalantly. It was the best shrug he could muster. “Better. Still tired though.”

Luwin stood up from the bed. “Well, best cure for that is more sleep. I’ll come again in the evening after dinner. In the meantime, stay in bed and rest.”

“Thank you, Maester.”

Chains rattled as Maester Luwin turned back around. “One more thing; Lord Stark has inquired about your condition and wishes to see you as soon as you’re able.”

Looking around him and back to Luwin, Clark laughed. “Well, if he doesn’t mind me not standing, I can see him today.”

Luwin nodded. “I’ll inform him. Rest easy, Tiresias.”

The maester exited and Clark returned to his sprawl on the bed. He was done sweating profusely but the room still felt quite warm to him. He was unable to tell whether it was pleasant or not.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Mal returned soon with a bit more food since he’d drank all his broth at breakfast. After much pleading, she opened the window for a few moments. He was sure his room was quite pungent after many days with no air circulation and the wind after the early spring rain was very welcome.

He slept sparingly through the rest of the morning and the afternoon. After lunch, there was a knock on his door.

“Hello?” he called and the door opened. Robb, Jon, Sansa and Arya came into the room. Arya was holding onto Jon’s hand and Sansa was clutching a bunch of blue winter roses in front of her. She nodded in greeting.

“Good afternoon, Tiresias. Maester Luwin told us in lessons today that you were feeling much better. These are for you.”

She placed the roses on the bedside table, next to the candle.

A lump arose in Clark’s throat, which he swallowed. He reached for the roses. Sansa extracted one and handed it to him. He cupped the flower in his hand delicately, gazing at it.

“I’ve only heard of winter roses before,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen one. Certainly have never held one.” He turned to the children. “Thank you, Sansa. Thank you every one of you. This was a lovely gift.”

He felt the weight of the mattress shift and saw that Arya had climbed on top of the bed, settling by his feet. The chubby toddler phrase was gone and she was skinny Arya Stark in miniature.

“You were sick,” she proclaimed, in the way children do, somehow both a strong statement and a question all at once.

Clark nodded. “I was. I was so sick that I had to go to sleep and snore and drink broth for a few days.”

“You do feel better though, do you?” asked Jon quietly. Clark met his concerned eyes easily.

“I do, Jon. I really do. I know I look haggard, but I’m fine. This day should be my last day of bed rest before I return to my duties. I’m looking forward to the training yard. How have your lessons been with Ser Rodrik?”

The rest of the conversation was brief, but spirited. After Robb got past his surprise learning about Tiresias the librarian sparring with his brother, they both detailed Ser Rodrik’s lessons enthusiastically.

“And what of Maester Luwin?” asked Clark. “Have you all learned something in the past few days from him as well?”

Robb shrugged. “A little.”

“A little? I see.” He leaned forward slightly. _“Do you speak Valyrian yet?”_

The eyes from the children widened. Clark looked to all of them, one by one. He was sure he spoke correctly, albeit slowly. He couldn’t be sure. Learning a language is nigh impossible without a practice partner.

_“Will no one speak? Maester Luwin teaches Valyrian, true?”_

Jon cleared his throat. _“Yes. I speak little. We speak little.” _He gestured to Sansa and Robb Stark, who were definitely understanding the words, but still looked bewildered.

Clark turned to Arya, who looked quite perturbed at being left out.

“I’m sorry, Arya. Jon and I were speaking Valyrian.”

The girl’s brow furrowed. “Dragon?”

Clark nodded. “That’s right. Dragons come from Valyria. That’s very good, Arya. Soon, you’ll come to the library and learn the language of dragons. Would you like that?”

Arya nodded, her eyes bright.

The rest of the conversation was held in the Common Tongue, peppered by Valyrian and the Old Tongue, both of which Jon translated for Arya. The little girl repeated each foreign word as well as she possibly could. Clark tried not to turn the visit into a language review, but the children seemed to enjoy the game. Most of them at least. Robb was very polite and played along, but he could feel the future Lord of Winterfell growing antsy.

By the time the children said goodbye and left, Clark was exhausted once again. He fell back asleep for a few hours and woke up to the scullery maid closing his curtains and placing fresh logs in the fire.

“Girl,” he said. She started a bit, but rose.

“Yes?” Her eyes were very big.

He took a deep breath. “Have you been in here every day that I’ve been ill? Keeping the fire going?”

The girl nodded. “I have, yes.”

“What’s your name?...I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t know it.”

Surprised (at what, Clark didn’t really know), the girl recovered and spoke.

“My name is Hilde.”

“Thank you, Hilde. It’s been very warm in here.”

Hilde blinked, but nodded. She picked up her tote bag just someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Clark called.

Lord Stark opened the door, his eyes going from Clark to Hilde with her tote bag. She gave a short curtsey.

“M’Lord,” she said, before exiting quickly. Lord Stark closed the door after her and crossed to the bed.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Clark sighed. “Better. Maester Luwin will be back after supper to see me, but I suspect he’ll clear me for duty. I should be back in the library tomorrow.”

Ned nodded. “Good.” The chair for Clark’s desk had been moved to the bedside for Mal, Luwin and others. Ned sat, his eyes leveling with Clark’s.

“Do you still wish to trek north to the Wall with me?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” said Clark immediately.

“Will you be healthy enough?”

“As long as we don’t leave tonight, I’ll be all right,” said Clark. “We leave in a fortnight, correct?”

Ned leaned forward, the chair creaking.

“Do you still plan to go beyond the Wall? Should Lord Commander Mormont refuse to move against Craster?”

Clark resisted the urge to make light of Ned’s caution. He doubted there were any enemy spies in Winterfell, but then again that’s the sloppy attitude that got a lot of people killed in the show. And so he lowered his voice even more.

“Yes, I do,” he muttered. There were moments though when he wondered whether or not killing Craster was the right thing to do. Not even regarding the endless rapes of his wives and daughters, there was the bargain he managed to strike with the White Walkers. If Craster was killed and the White Walkers couldn’t get his sons, would they start raiding more free folk villages to take the baby boys?

Ultimately however, that was a scenario that Clark was prepared to risk. In the next decade before Craster’s death, he would provide the Night King with several new White Walkers, enabling a swifter end to the free folk. That must not happen.

Not that he said any of this out loud to Lord Stark. Ned simply looked at him after he answered in the affirmative. Clark held his gaze. He was weak at the moment, but still strong enough not to back down. Finally Ned reached into his pocket.

“I’ve something to show you,” he said, pulling out an object covered in cloth. He handed it gingerly to Clark. It was rather light. “Careful, there’s a little sharpness to it.”

Clark unfurled the cloth gently, revealing a small slab of obsidian, shiny in some places, dull in others, with hints of purple and blue interspersed in the darkness. He turned to Lord Stark, unable to keep a small smile from his face.

“Lord Stannis?”

Ned nodded. “That’s a small bit of our first shipment from Dragonstone. Lord Stannis was…questioning, but Sorcha and I talked two months ago and she agreed to corroborate a story about jewelry for furs. I won’t say that Lord Stannis entirely believes it, but he has agreed to a light mining operation in that beach cavern. He only asked me to cover the labor and shipping cost, plus a light fee for his services. For now.”

Clark turned the dragonglass over in his hand. The firelight shone beautifully through it.

“Well, dragonglass is worthless to the rest of the kingdoms,” he muttered, his eyes still drawn to the obsidian. “On one hand, that means you get it cheap. On the other hand, you look like a fool for purchasing it.”

“I agree,” said Lord Stark, his brow furrowing. “It’ll have to be bought and imported in small steady shipments. Not enough to grab attention, but enough to be prepared for when they come.”

“Will that work for Lord Stannis?”

Ned leaned back in his chair. “I don’t see why not. This isn’t particularly difficult to mine and the cave has an abundance of it, according to Maester Cressen’s report. The first shipment is a day’s work for two experienced miners. A shipment every two months. For nine years…I don’t know if it’ll be enough. But we can always ask for more as the years pass.”

Clark wrapped the dragonglass back in the cloth and handed it back to Lord Stark.

“How much dragonglass in the first shipment?”

Ned nodded to the chest in the corner. “Twenty boxes. Each about the size of that chest there.”

“May I ask a favor of you, Lord Stark?”

“Certainly.”

“I’d like to make use of the dragonglass, if I may. Would you order Mikken…would you instruct Mikken to forge a dagger out of dragonglass for me?”

The fire crackled. Ned fell into one of his contemplative silences. It’d been a while since one of those.

“Do you expect to encounter one of them beyond the Wall already? At this point?”

Clark shook his head, handing back the obsidian. “I don’t know, but I’d rather have it and not need it.”

Ned pocketed the dragonglass. “I’m sure Mikken could have it done quickly. The vast majority of the ironworks required for the new structure are completed. He has his apprentices as well.”

“I also need spearheads,” said Clark. “And additional daggers. All from dragonglass. Enough for me to carry up north. Will that be possible before we leave?”

He knew from Lord Stark’s face, that he understood exactly what was to be done with these additional weapons. Ned nodded.

“It should be. Mikken will be joining me at my table tonight. I’ll speak to him. It’s only what you can carry, yes?”

“I think so.” Clark chuckled. “I don’t think I can smuggle a horse past the Wall.”

“No, no, I think not.” Ned’s eyes shone a little brighter. It was close to a laugh.

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” said Clark. At that moment, his stomach rumbled very loudly. “Excuse me.”

“Not at all,” said Ned. He stood. “I think Mal is on her way with supper shortly. I’ll be going. It’s good to see you feeling better.”

He turned to exit.

“Lord Stark?” Clark said, halting the Lord of Winterfell at the door. “Have you told anyone that I’m coming along yet?”

Ned shook his head. “Not as of yet, no.”

“I have a couple of messages from Castle Black, corresponding with Maester Aemon…well, actually, it’s Maester Luwin’s back and forth, I just copy it, but I do have some excuse to go. In a week, may I approach you in public and ask formally to travel with you? In order to retrieve some tomes Maester Luwin set aside for us?”

“Has Maester Aemon set aside any tomes for us?”

Clark shrugged. “There are some possibilities…Look, I’m not going to rob an old man blind…well, he’s already…never mind. He has mentioned a few tomes we might be interested in. It’s a good excuse. Additionally, I could say I also want to see the Wall.”

He truly did. He knew that there was going to be a colossal difference between seeing it on television and seeing it in real life.

Lord Stark gave a final nod. “All right, a sennight from tonight, I’ll bring you up to have dinner with the family. I’ll discuss my planned departure and inquire into your plans while I’m away. You can ask me then.”

“With all the tiny witnesses.”

Ned smiled. “Right. Sleep well, Tiresias.” He exited silently.

Clark laid back on his pillow, feeling an energy course through his veins that had been absent the past week. Elation was a bad word for it. He was glad to see the Wall and began this part of the plan. He didn’t relish killing Craster though. He hoped his wives and daughters wouldn’t hate him too badly. Abusers tend to create dependency in their victims.

_Gilly’s a child now, I think. How old is she?_

Mal came soon with his dinner, the first piece of solid meat he had in several days. He ate slowly and carefully, thinking. He had to get back to the library, to research all he could concerning beyond the Wall. The hunt proved that he could be a wolf, sniff his way to food, to safety and probably all the way to Craster if he concentrated.

He paused in the middle of lifting his venison to his mouth at the thought.

_Sniff my way to Craster..._

Lowering his fork, he felt his breath quicken…

_Enhanced senses…agility…immunity to the cold…sent to protect House Stark…_

Clark started laughing, softly at first, but it grew. Thankfully he was alone in the room. He set aside his tray and placed his head in his hands. The laughter died down and he was left shaking his head, grinning like a maniac…

_The strengths of a direwolf…well, I don’t know how well they climb, but I like it. Got the body hair for it anyway…well done, you bastard. I know you said not to wonder who you are. But thank you and well done. Jesus Christ…_

Eventually he calmed enough to pull his tray back and finish his meal, the expected comedown from this elated discovery coming later than he thought. But still it came…

It would do him good to not overly rely on whatever he was given by his mysterious benefactor. He had to prepare. He needed more information and the library was key. At Winterfell and Castle Black. Beyond the Wall was not his home. It belonged to the Free Folk, the giants, the Children, to White Walkers and their wights. He couldn’t waltz through it.

After all, he hadn’t been a wolf for that long.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! I'm back from writing and will publish every Tuesday a new chapter (barring any unfortunate accidents), until I've run out like last time. As of now, I have 100k words written, so we'll see how that goes.
> 
> Thank you for your patience!

The departure for the Wall was a muted affair for the inhabitants of Winterfell. Lord Stark had insisted on it. Not wanting to depart with a huge fanfare. Farewells were exchanged the night before, as the men would be leaving at dawn. Fifty guards would accompany Lord Stark and Ser Rodrik to the Wall.

Clark was the outlier to this group and he definitely felt like it. There would be no horse for him. Instead he would be riding in the wagons with the stewards. Not that that particularly irked him. When it came to his augmented abilities in Westeros, horsemanship was not one of them. The wagon may jolt a little in keeping up with the riders, but it was a small price to pay in order to tag along.

He exited the kitchen, carrying his rucksack and a cloth bag full of warm bread. Most of the soldiers were already mounted and the wagons were lined up, ready for departure. Clark found his vehicle and climbed aboard, giving a nod to Stef, the steward who sat at the reins.

He tossed the bag of bread down by the dried goods and made his way to his corner of the cart, where he had placed a large trunk. Despite knowing that he probably didn’t have time to fetch anything that he might have forgotten, he nevertheless opened the trunk to check its contents.

Most of the trunk was empty. The excuse for its presence was the transportation of tomes from Castle Black to Winterfell. However, in the corner sat a tied bag. He patted the bag, confirming its contents. Underneath, lain diagonally was his latest purchase: a yew bow with a few curled hemp strings in the corner and a quiver of arrows. He ran his fingers across the weapon. It had set him back a fair amount of coin to get it. To be honest, he should have bought it months ago. It was still new and needed more breaking in. But it would do for now.

He tossed his rucksack in and closed the trunk. He would string the bow later, farther north along the Kingsroad. Making his way back to Stef, he sat in the passenger seat.

Not a moment too soon either. Ned Stark emerged from the Great Hall with Ser Rodrik and Catelyn Stark in tow. Ser Rodrik walked ahead briskly to mount his own horse at the front. At the entrance to the keep, Ned said his farewells to Catelyn. Clark turned his eyes to the front, allowing them some privacy.

The few remaining soldiers not on their horses were saddling up. The western gates were opening. Clark heard Stef yawn beside him and stifled his own. The grey light was beginning to creep into the sky.

A low chorus of “My Lord” began behind him. Ned Stark walked by the cart and straight on, not making any eye contact. Clark returned the favor. As far as anyone was concerned, it was Lord Stark’s initiative that made this visit to the Wall a reality. Tiresias was simply the loony foreigner who asked to tag along. He turned back to look at Catelyn. She seemed sad to see her husband go, but not worried. It wasn’t another war her Ned was riding off to.

Clark turned back to see Ned Stark mounting his horse. A destrier perhaps? After living with horses for more than a year, he was still fuzzy on the different types. He shrugged it off. Another fun subject to study if he managed to survive beyond the Wall.

He could hear shouts from the front guard and the small train began to move. Stef didn’t even have to nudge the horses in front to begin walking. Clark closed his eyes. The smells of the Winterfell yard were quickly replaced with the morning fires of Wintertown and then with the open meadows surrounding the Kingsroad. He felt the wagon slowing for a turn. He opened his eyes.

It took a little while for the wagons and horses to make the right turn. But they increased their speed once everyone was lined up. Clark resisted the urge to open his fur jacket (for which he traded his fur cloak, wanting greater mobility) and feel the cooling wind. Stef was a born Northerner and he was bundled tightly against the morning chill. Tiresias shouldn’t seem to fare any better.

* * *

As the raven flew, it was six hundred miles from Winterfell to Castle Black. The Kingsroad added about fifty additional miles to that journey. Clark thanked the numerous deities in this world that he was riding instead of walking as he did from the Riverlands to Winterfell.

Not to say that riding in a cart on the Kingsroad had no downfalls. After Winterfell, the road received significantly less maintenance, as there were fewer travelers. Inns were scarce in this part of Westeros and they camped more nights than not. It didn’t matter to Clark. He rejoiced inside whenever they did stop. The jolting of the wagon was persistently irritating and he had to refrain actively from sulking. He simply became more taciturn.

After a week of travel, they paused by a river. After stretching and massaging his ass, Clark consulted the map and saw that this waterway had the clever name of _Last River_. As it was the northernmost river in the North. Clark almost groaned out loud. Instead he put the map away and began to help set up the camp.

They were only whole three days from Castle Black. To the east was Last Hearth, the hold of the Umbers. He wished he could see it for himself. Unfortunately, Ned Stark had decided that they would stop at Last Hearth on their return journey. It was no guarantee that Tiresias would accompany them.

The atmosphere that night was subdued. The soldiers around the campfire made little noise as to not distract the guards on duty around the camp. This may have been friendly territory with the Umbers to the east and the hill tribes having no quarrel with the Starks. Still, the men took their duty seriously and kept their ears and eyes open for the whole night, in protection of their liege lord.

Not that there was anything particularly dangerous nearby. Clark kept his ears open as well and he couldn’t discern enemies or any large animals lurking in the darkness. Ned Stark seemed relaxed enough. He didn’t separate himself from his men. He didn’t even bring his lord’s tent. He slept outside like everyone else. He ate and sat at a different campfire every night, mingling with his men, knowing them all by name or getting to know the ones he didn’t.

He didn’t speak to Clark however, which suited him fine, though they shared a fire one or two nights. This evening, however, they sat on opposite ends of the camp. Clark was reading a tome by firelight when the guard changed. He looked to see Gord coming from the darkness and returned to his tome.

“Anything dangerous out there?” he asked.

Gord took a pull from his waterskin. “Nah. Might’ve heard couple of squirrels fucking but that’s all.” The big man sat on a log, which creaked under his weight.

Clark turned a page. “Well, it’s wonderfully romantic tonight.”

That got a good laugh from Gord. “Your words, mate. Not mine.” He rubbed his face, yawning. Out of Clark’s periphery, he could see the big man fidgeting, looking around, before coming to stare at the fire. Clearly, a question was at the front of his mind.

“What?” Clark asked, continuing to follow his book.

Gord waved it away. “Just wondering…it’s romantic, aye? Forest? Campfire?”

His eyebrows raised to his hairline, Clark turned to Gord, who seemed to realize how that sounded.

“Nah, I mean...” he said quickly, barely suppressing a laugh. “I meant, do you think…you think a woman might enjoy an evening out like this? Some summer night in the wood? Wine? Food? A fire and stars?”

Clark considered it. “Don’t see why not. I like those things.”

“Aye, but do you think…” He swallowed and began again. “Do you think Ginn would like that?”

Powerless to stop the shit-eating grin that spread on his face, Clark returned to his book.

“Don’t laugh! I’m serious, mate,” said Gord, laughing himself. “I think…I think it’d be nice.”

“It would be…are you and Ginn seeing each other?”

“Naaahh…I mean, we’re friendly. She smiles at me often.” He looked to Clark and sighed exasperated. “Well, it wouldn’t happen the first time when I court her. When she feels all right with me, I’ll suggest it…and I swear—by my mother—it’ll go no further than supper by a campfire...”

“I think it’s a lovely idea,” interjected Clark, as he turned a page. He swallowed the grin. “Feel better?”

“Aye,” said Gord, nodding. “Aye, I do.”

He took another swig from his flask, before changing the subject.

“What are you reading?”

“_The First Hold_,” responded Clark, without losing his place. “A history of the Nightfort. As much as they can make of it. Hardly any of it can be verified.”

“Not going to the Nightfort, are we? Just Castle Black and Eastwatch?”

“As far as I know.”

“So why you reading that?”

_Trying to find the same passage that Sam and Gilly took to get back south of the Wall._

Clark shrugged. “I’ve a special place in my heart for sad and haunted places. Also, it’s a wonderfully creepy story to read in the middle of a dark forest.”

Gord chuckled. “Fair enough. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to spar with you this past sennight.”

“That’s all right. You’ve your duty. And I mine.”

“Just up to see a library, right?”

Clark closed the tome. He couldn’t concentrate on it anymore. “I’d gone up there in a short time anyway. Maester Aemon has listed several volumes gathering dust that could greatly benefit Winterfell. He seems quite generous. I’m just glad I can travel with a group for once. Have some protection. Won’t always be the case.”

Gord waved that away. “You can take care of yourself.”

Clark shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Looking into the fire, Gord scratched his chest. “I think we can spare one more log before we sleep.”

“I’ll get it,” said Clark, putting the tome down and rising to cross to the wood pile. The soldiers didn’t put the role of steward on him and they assisted with the camp as well. However, Clark felt compelled to help. He didn’t want to feel like a passenger.

He returned with a medium-sized log, which he let fall gently into the fire. The structure collapsed under the weight and he reached in quickly to readjust the wood. Careful to keep his hands away from the actual flames, he brought the fire up to a sensible roar. He sat back down and saw Gord staring at him.

“Yes?”

The big man shook his head. “You’ve tough hands, mate. Not too hot?”

Clark looked at his hands and shrugged. “Didn’t touch the flames. Just a little heat. Not my first time tending a campfire.”

Gord took a swig from his flask and tossed it to Clark. “Well, you Essosi are more inclined to heat than us, I suppose.” He took out his sword and his whetstone.

Clark took his own swig and held it, letting the drink burn for a bit before swallowing.

“Have you ever been to the Wall, Gord?”

“Nah. Farthest north I’ve been is Last Hearth. Three years ago.” He laid his sword flat and paused. “They say we’ll be able to see it a day away. You’ve never traveled there yourself, have you?”

Clark gazed on the dancing flames. “Only in dreams. I’ve flown there. Over it. Seen battles. Seen it fall.”

Gord chuckled, positioning his sword for sharpening. “Exciting dreams. Must be all the reading.”

Clark felt a small smile form. “Aye. That must be it.”

* * *

On the last day of their journey, Clark felt something he only ever felt once before; when he had first laid eyes on Winterfell. Something familiar, but only ever seen through the medium of television; a set, a dressed-up location.

Seeing the Wall on a television screen or through his laptop was one thing. Seeing it in actuality was something else entirely. Gord was right, the morning of their last day of traveling, they saw something through the trees. A wall of white that grew larger and larger as the horses continued forward. Clark found himself grateful for the Wall revealing itself so early. He had time to space his awe. Seven hundred feet is quite a height. Seeing that height span into the distance both east and west was something else.

Some of the soldiers shared his awe, staring at the nearing Wall wide-eyed until they remembered their duty and returned their eyes to their current surroundings. Clark didn’t share their duty and continued to gawk at the Wall unabashedly.

Gord laughed when he saw his friend’s face. “Seen anything like that in Essos, Tiresias?”

Clark shook his head. “The titan in Braavos…the bridge in Volantis…nothing like this though.”

“Except in dreams?”

“Aye…aye, my dreams.”

A couple of hours past midday, he saw another familiar place come into view. Castle Black was nearing and he felt his heart pounding. He lowered his head and breathed, determined not to be a grinning idiot in front of the Night’s Watch.

He kept his head lowered as they approached the gates. The guards were shouting above to open for the Warden, having seen the direwolf banners raised before Lord Stark. Eyes on his boots, he heard the clashes of training swords, the beating of ironworks and a persistent wind that echoed through the open yard. Finally the wagon halted and he raised his head.

Castle Black was frozen in time. The buildings were all the same. Perhaps there were a few more Watchmen than there were at the start of the series, but they were the same motley collection of mostly old men, criminals, poor boys with no other course in life and they were all staring at Lord Stark, dismounting from his horse.

The yard grew even more quiet as a group of men in black exited the castle’s interior and strode toward Lord Stark. A tall barrel of a man led them. His hair was slightly more blonde but his eyes held the same calm ferocity…

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont shook Lord Stark’s hand and welcomed him officially to Castle Black. They didn’t smile but their faces became less lined, which meant the greeting was quite amiable. Two men of the North who shared the same curt, stoic, and honorable approach to life.

_Well, honorable to a point. For each of them. _

Still, Clark smiled to himself. It really was no wonder that Jon Snow took such a shine to Jeor Mormont.

The smile only widened when another man stepped forward from the group and gripped Ned’s hand. Benjen Stark smiled openly at his brother, which caused Ned to grin as well. The formal handshake done, the two brothers embraced each other. Clark shook his head. Benjen was perhaps as young as him…which was a really weird thought.

Realizing he was still grinning like an idiot, he wiped the smile from his face when he observed the rest of the yard. Everyone else looked quite serious. He scanned for more familiar faces. Over by the practice yard, he looked for someone tall and scowling with curly hair…and there was Ser Alliser Thorne, who was glaring at Lord Stark openly with loathing. If he wasn’t wearing gloves, Clark guessed he would see his knuckles turning white…

_A skilled fighter, a tough asshole…he would be a great asset if he could drop his prejudice against the Free Folk…_

Clark sighed. That would be a tough sell. And probably unsuccessful. Still he logged the thought away as he scanned the area…

He didn’t see Edd, who was probably not here yet. Yoren was probably carting around the Seven Kingdoms for recruits and Qhorin Halfhand was absent as well. Grenn was on his farm and Pyp might be singing for lords already…

At the front of the company, Lord Stark turned from Mormont to give instructions to the captain of his guards before ascending the stairs with the officers of the Night’s Watch. The captain turned to the company.

“All right,” he called. “Stable the horses and help with the supplies. After we’re unloaded, we’ll be shown to our quarters.”

The men all dismounted and the stewards jumped from the wagons to begin herding the horses to the stables. Clark remained seated, watching Lord Stark walk with Mormont and Benjen to, what he assumed was, the Lord Commander’s office. They stopped as an older man exited the building, being guided by a steward. The group paused before the old man, who nodded his head and reached out his hand.

Ned Stark shook Maester Aemon’s hand and spoke to him. Clark couldn’t hear what they were saying but it seemed quite respectful. Finally the old man dropped the Warden’s hand and joined the officers as they proceeded indoors.

“Tiresias? Oy, Tiresias!”

Clark started. He was still in the wagon. Stef was holding the horses by the reins.

“You wanna come down?”

He climbed down. “Forgive me, Stef. I…” He indicated the Wall. “It’s quite the sight, you know?”

“Aye, I know,” said Stef, craning his neck to see the top. “Fucking big, innit? Let’s get this loaded in quick. Sooner we can get out of this cold.”

The horses unhitched and taken to the stables, Tiresias assisted the soldiers and the stewards as they unloaded supplies for their stay. Ned Stark didn’t want to weigh down the resources of the Night’s Watch to host his men. They also unloaded a few donations to the Watch, as a token of good will to Lord Mormont’s new command.

Clark kept his near empty trunk in the wagon. He’ll transfer the tomes there instead of lugging the damn thing to the library.

With all the men working, it all went by very quickly and they were shown their quarters for the next two nights. Clark would be sleeping with the stewards. Many of the soldiers immediately fell in their beds, eager to rest before supper. Days of traveling take a toll on everyone.

However, Clark only felt more energetic than before. He was at Castle Black for God’s sake. Securing his knife and his fur jacket, but not needing either, he exited the quarters and prowled the railing which surrounded the yard. Winter may be over, but it was still getting dark early.

That wasn’t slowing Ser Alliser Thorne down though. The recruits were still out, still armored and still swinging their swords, their breath fogging as they panted. Ser Alliser’s anger at Lord Stark’s arrival had not abated and he was sure that this training would last long into the night. Maybe he wanted to avoid Lord Stark at supper tonight…

Clark had debated whether or not to approach Ser Alliser during this trip. He decided not to during the trek and this only cemented his decision. The man was too angry. Besides he was not here to convince anyone. Not yet.

He asked a passing black brother where the library was and received a silent point. He turned to thank the man, but he was already walking away. Taking no offense, he headed in the indicated direction.

A soft snowfall began as Clark entered the library. It was empty, which wasn’t a surprise. Lighting a lantern, he entered the shelves, his footfalls creaking lightly on the ancient floor. His eyes scanned the tomes. It seemed organized enough. Maester Aemon did a fair job with that.

Before anyone could interrupt him, he looked for the maps. The racks of scrolls seemed a logical place to start. It took a few minutes but he located them. He commandeered a table next to the fireplace, placing the lantern on top. It took two trips to carry all the maps to the table, though he made sure to mark their places.

The fire in the hearth was low, so Clark placed two more logs on top gently and brought the fire to a medium blaze. Turning to the maps, he began to unfurl them, scanning them. Quickly, but not so much that he would damage them. He was looking for something specific…

Finally on the fourteenth scroll, he found it; a detailed rendering of the land beyond the Wall. As far as the Night’s Watch knew. Their knowledge was severely limited compared to that of the Free Folk…

Regardless he only needed to know one place. His finger traced north from Castle Black and he found it. A marker which read _Craster’s Keep_. Compared to the rest of the map, this marking looked relatively new.

His finger rested on the marker for a solid minute, and began to tremble slightly. He removed his finger and cleared his throat, working backwards from the Keep. Taking note of the mile markings at the bottom of the map, he measured a journey from Castle Black. It seemed that the whole journey spanned about sixty miles northwest. Not as bad as he had feared. If it was a clear road, he would be there in two days. Unfortunately, the Haunted Forest would not provide such a straight path.

Nevertheless, he scanned the map again and figured out a workable path to Craster’s Keep, taking note of various markers along the way; rivers, trails and such. He had to work quickly. He realized that having all the various maps open was a suspicious sight for anyone who walked in.

Having marked his pending journey beyond the Wall, Clark began to roll up the maps, as delicately and as quickly as he possibly could. Each scroll returned to its rightful place.

As Clark deposited his second to last map, he heard the library door creak open. He froze, the shuffling of a slow step coming near the fire, where the final scroll laid, the clink of chains accompanying the steps…

Clark walked back to the table, forcing himself to remain calm. He rolled the map closed as quietly as he possibly could and walked back to the map rack, softening his footsteps and placing the scroll back gingerly. He turned to see Maester Aemon emerge from the shelves, his white eyes turned to the fire.

Clearing his throat, Clark stepped forward.

“Maester Aemon?”

To Clark’s relief, the old man didn’t start. He simply turned his ear to the new voice in his library.

“Yes, that’s me. To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

Clark reached for Aemon’s hand, shaking it.

“I’m Tiresias, the librarian at Winterfell.” Clark swallowed, struggling to contain his excitement. “I came here with Lord Stark’s entourage.”

“Ah, you’re here for some books.”

“Only what you can spare, Maester. I don’t want to take anything that’s near and dear to you or the men.”

Aemon waved away the sentiment and settled into his chair by the fire. He didn’t need to fumble for it.

“I wouldn’t be concerned about the men, Tiresias. Most of them are illiterate anyway. Those that can read are often too busy with their own duty.”

“And yourself?”

Aemon couldn’t resist a laugh. “I’m a little blind for letters now.”

“Don’t tell you haven’t had your steward read out loud to you before.”

“Chett is a good man and a great help. A good orator he is not. He takes what is written and recites it so drearily.”

Clark shrugged, not wanting to pass judgment on poor Chett. “Well, I’m no great orator myself. I just read.”

Aemon smiled. Though his eyes were dulled white, they were still expressive. A curious look came over him. Clark had a short guess as to what the old man would ask.

“Your accent…it’s quite peculiar.”

And his guess was correct. “So I’ve been told. I’m not from Westeros.”

“Where are you from?”

“Essos. My people traveled in between the Free Cities and the bays up north. This cold almost feels like home.”

Aemon hummed blithely at that, tapping his fist lightly on the chair. The fire crackled and sent soft shadows across the old dragon’s face. Clark waited for him to speak.

“So,” stated Aemon. “Would you care to get started?”

“Maester?”

“Well, you seem quite excited. Polite, but excited. To see our tomes, no doubt. Soon to be yours.”

“Soon to be Winterfell’s, Maester,” interjected Clark. Perhaps a bit too quickly. “But supper should be beginning soon. We could start in the morning, when we’re refreshed. To start gathering?”

“No need,” said Aemon briskly. He stood from the chair and walked to the back table in the library, gesturing Clark to follow him. He did so, taking the lantern with him.

Aemon was slow due to his age, but he seemed completely confident in his whereabouts, reaching for the first volume without hitting the table first. He handed it to Clark, who was careful to keep it away from the lantern.

“After poring over the correspondence between Luwin and myself, Chett and I spent the last three nights gathering all materials we believed Winterfell would hold dear, and narrowing that down to what we were willing to part with. Every piece of writing in the Old Tongue. No one here can speak it. The histories of the North requested, the myths of the First Men, and those before.”

He patted a pile of medium height. There were several such piles on the table. Aemon gave a short and somewhat sad laugh. “Narrowing down is perhaps the wrong way to describe it. Honestly, we struggled to find reasons to keep what we did.”

Clark placed both the lantern and volume down on the table, cracking the latter open delicately. The ink was a little faded and the spine needed to be tightened, but it was in good shape for its age. He turned the pages gently.

“Maester Aemon, are you sure?” He straightened, facing the old man. “These are treasures. I don’t wish to deprive you of all of them.”

Aemon smiled sadly. “I’ve already been deprived of them, despite Chett’s best efforts. It’s because they are treasures, that I ask you and Lord Stark to keep them safe in Winterfell. Help them find eager readers. Even if it’s just you.”

Clark nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’m sure.” Aemon patted his hand. “How are you carrying these back to Winterfell?”

“A trunk in the wagon.”

Aemon sighed. “I suppose that must do. You can start to carry them now if you would like. Afterwards, this library would still be open to you if you wish. Should you see anything else that catches your eye, please let me know. I’m sure you’ll be able to take it as well.”

Having already lost count of how many handshakes have occurred between them, Clark nevertheless shook Aemon’s hand again.

“I’ll be more than happy to explore this library tomorrow, Maester. But I highly doubt I’ll be taking anything more. You’ve already been most generous to Winterfell.”

Aemon smiled, patting his hand. “Supper begins in another hour. You should be done by then.”

The old man returned to the fire and settled back into his chair, visibly relaxing in the heat and the glow of the flames. Careful not to damage any tomes, Clark picked up three volumes and moved for the exit.

All in all, it took eleven careful trips between the stables and the library. At the end of it, Clark had to extract his bow and supplies from the trunk to make room for the final volumes. After shutting the trunk and covering his gear, he made his way back to the library, careful to stamp his feet clear of snow before entering.

Aemon remained seated for the entire process, not even moving his head. Clark made his way to the hearth and the maester gestured to the chair beside him.

“Thank you,” said Clark, taking the offered seat.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Normally the fire would have held Clark’s attention, but now…he was alone with Maester Aemon and he couldn’t stop staring at the man. The last known Targaryen in Westeros. The kind mentor and unknowing relative to Jon Snow. An old man who would find one of the few natural deaths in this story. That is if he was lucky enough this time around…

Clark knew he was taking advantage of the man’s blindness, but he couldn’t help it. He had to curb his incredulity every time he met a character he had come to know from the show. Never to let his enthusiasm show. Ultimately, living at Winterfell has dulled that aspect with the Starks, but how will he react to others? To the Lannisters? To Bronn? Tormund? Brienne?

He had to act like a human being in front of them and restrain himself. Lest he completely mess something up and doom the characters he was trying to save. Now, with Maester Aemon, with his blindness, he let the restraint down and simply stared. It was safe.

Or so he thought.

Maester Aemon cleared his throat. “Tell me, Tiresias. What do you find so fascinating about my face?”

Clark stilled. “Maester?”

“My face, Tiresias.” Aemon’s tone was light enough, but it was still sharp. “You’ve been staring at it for the past few minutes.”

Averting his eyes to the fire, Clark shrugged. “What if I told you, you were extraordinarily handsome?”

“I’d call you a criminal liar.”

Clark laughed. “Aye.” He leaned back and sighed. “Forgive me for staring, Maester. You’re just…you’re not what I picture when someone says Prince.”

“Former Prince,” corrected Aemon, before sighing himself. “That was a long time ago.”

“It was,” said Clark quietly. “I suppose I should wait until I meet more Princes to make this judgment. But you’re certainly the most helpful and kindest Prince I’ve ever come across.”

“Not a high standard, I suppose. But I thank you all the same.”

“You’re welcome.”

Clark’s stomach chose at that moment to give a great growl, which didn’t need a silent library to be heard.

“Excuse me.”

“Not at all,” said Aemon, as he stood. “I believe that’s our signal to head down to the dining hall. Would you be so good as to lend me your arm?”

“Of course,” said Clark, springing to his feet and crossing to the maester. They exited the library. There was a brother of the Night’s Watch coming toward them, his arm extended.

“Thank you, Chett, but you may go ahead,” Aemon called out, before Chett even opened his mouth. “I’ll be guided to supper by my new friend, Tiresias, here. You'll have one respite for the evening.”

Chett nodded. “Of course, Maester,” he said briefly. His eyes found Clark’s, nodding in greeting before departing.

Maester Aemon continued along, with Clark suppressing his question. However Aemon must have sensed it anyway.

“Everyone has their own way of going about the world, Tiresias.”

“His footsteps?”

“That’s a part of it, yes.”

They reached a staircase and began to descend.

“Would you recognize me if I walked into the library now?” asked Clark. “Before I spoke?”

“I doubt it. Chett is a regular companion.”

They said nothing more for the rest of the walk. The murmurs of the dining hall were heard before they reached the entrance. The meal was already in full swing and bolstered by the Winterfell soldiers. Clark pressed the door open and the noise amplified even more. They made their way around the edge of the hall, heading to the high table. There was only one empty seat there left.

As they neared the high table, Aemon tapped Clark’s shoulder. He lowered his head to hear.

“Thank you, Tiresias. I can find my place from here.”

Clark nodded and lowered his arm, but the Maester didn’t let go just yet. He leaned forward, his voice low enough to cut through the loudness of the Night’s Watch and the Winterfell guard.

“I’m afraid you have an additional advantage on me, Tiresias. You seem to know my full name. And I don’t know yours.”

“It’s just Tiresias, Maester Aemon.”

He swallowed, immediately hoping the hall was loud to cover it. So Aemon wouldn’t hear it. The old maester lifted his eyebrows.

“I see…not even Tiresias of Lorath, Saath or Morosh? Whichever bay city your family frequented?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I see.” Maester Aemon gave a small smile. “Well, that wouldn’t be true anyway, would it?”

The room seemed to grow quieter. Clark glanced and saw that the men were still talking, ignorant of what Maester Aemon just said. He turned his eye back to Aemon, who was still smiling benevolently. A line from the show came to him…

He smiled grimly. “You grew up in King’s Landing.”

Aemon peered at him, his eyes quite focused for being blind. “Pardon?”

“That’s how you knew. You know what a lie sounds like. A common thing at court, I would imagine.”

A small laugh came from the maester. “Indeed. Now, before I leave you, I will ask…should I be concerned that you lied?”

“I mean you no harm. You or the Night’s Watch.” He paused, waiting for Aemon. “That wasn’t a lie, unless you couldn’t tell.”

“Certainly didn’t sound it. But you didn’t answer my question. Should I be concerned?”

“No,” he stated immediately.

Several seconds passed. Clark could see a few of the brothers looking their way, wondering what intense conversation was taking place between this stranger and their castle maester. Finally Aemon dropped his hand.

“I’ll see you in the library tomorrow, my friend. Good evening.”

With that, Aemon turned and walked toward the high table, his chains clinking. Clark forced himself to turn away and grab a bowl. He didn’t need to be seen, staring shocked after the maester in front of everyone. He spooned some miserable excuse for a stew into his bowl, fetched some ale and sat down at the nearest table.

He was halfway through his meal when he looked up and realized that he knew absolutely no one at the table. A few of the bearded, hardened brothers of the Night’s Watch stared back at him. The rest ignored him. He nodded in greeting and turned back to his stew.

“New recruit?”

He looked back up to see one of the brothers peering at him. Swallowing what he hoped was venison, he shook his head.

The brother took a draught, wiping the spilled ale from his beard. “Why you here then?”

Clark took his own sip. It took a considerable effort not to wince. Sansa wasn’t being a snob about this ale. It really was repulsive. Too sour.

“Here for your books. For the library in Winterfell.”

With that, whatever interest the men had in this stranger evaporated. They returned to their bowls. Clark took another reluctant drink and turned his attention to the high table. Maester Aemon was eating calmly. The old man’s perception was quite inconvenient, but he wasn’t too concerned. Aemon Targaryen was committed to his life on the Wall. If Winterfell employed a foreigner who told a fib, it probably wouldn’t concern him much.

His eyes wandered to the center where Ned Stark was conversing with Jeor Mormont. The distance and many conversations between them made it impossible for Clark to overhear, but it seemed like a calm and earnest chat. He brought his eyes down and finished his meal. He wasn’t too peeved to be left out. He knew that as an outsider, he would have limited access to the interesting nobles and lords and commanders to hear their thoughts. Most of it would be filtered through Ned Stark. This wasn’t the show where the audience was a fly on the wall to political backstabbings and war plans.

In truth, there was a part of that which appealed to him. He didn’t care to be known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. If he was and his deeds were made known, he would become a target himself. In the back of his mind, he gave himself a light curse for sparring with Anthor Apperford. Thankfully that was a while ago and he was sure that any stories surrounding that fight had expired.

His teeth slammed something hard and he fought to keep a swear in. He moved his tongue around and found a bone. Upon example of his dinner companions whenever they tasted something unsavory, he spat it out and finished his ale.

* * *

The next morning, Clark rose early to browse the library. The cold was apparent, even though it didn’t bite him. His breath thick as he entered the courtyard, he grabbed his flint and steel from the Winterfell wagons.

He started a fire, more for the company and began searching the shelves. Maester Aemon did a thorough job cleaning out the library for them. He found no additional volumes of the Old Tongue and the histories he pulled already had copies or similar texts in Winterfell. Not that he expected to get much out of the complied histories. The authors of these tomes were heavily biased and it was apparent in the writing that the reader would never receive the whole story.

Funny enough, it was sifting through the biographies of individuals and cross referencing them with the general accounts that Clark seemed to understand the bigger and more complete version of history. Combined with boring accounts of weather, trading and agricultural records and he was somewhat able to read through whatever some old man had scribbled years and years ago.

At least he hoped. He wasn’t blind to bias himself.

With that in mind, he went for the records. He knew that the Night’s Watch couldn’t let these go. He doubted there were any copies. However, he set aside numerous records of the Night’s Watch, dating back hundreds of years. Their intakes, their numbers, their logged activites. He took out a bit of parchment, scribbling down a request for copied information to be sent to Winterfell. Not all of it, of course. Just enough to get an idea on how to manage the Night’s Watch or simply to know them better. Who knew? Perhaps the secret to dropping their vendetta against the wildings laid in their treasury intake.

He snorted, doubting it fully. But he still placed his scribbled request on top of the requested records on the table.

Afterwards, he sat and wrote a letter. He paused and started again many times, wondering just how the hell to convey what he wanted to say. Finally he settled on something that he could live with it. He dried the final copy, sealed it and threw the previous drafts into the fire. He watched them all burn, not wanting anyone else to possibly read what he had sealed away.

Footsteps came from the outside and he stood as the library door opened. Stef came into the library, his eyes finding Clark’s.

“Lord Stark wants to see you.” He didn’t wait for a response, before turning and walking away. Clark pocketed the letter and followed.

They straddled the main courtyard. Soldiers from Winterfell were intermingling with the Night’s Watch, mostly in the training yard where spars were held under the strict supervision of Ser Alliser and Ser Rodrik. They didn’t look happy to be sharing the responsibility.

Clark expected to be taken to the King’s Tower, where Lord Stark had been given his quarters. However, Stef veered north and he saw the lift, where Lord Stark stood waiting.

_Oh…oh yes. Yes!_

He kept his stupid grin off his face, not wanting to show too much excitement for where he realized they were heading.

“Lord Stark,” said Stef as they approached, indicating Clark. “As requested.”

Ned nodded. “Thank you, Stef. That’ll be all.”

As Stef walked off, Lord Stark entered the lift, his hand on the cage door. Clark followed and Ned shut it, before pulling the lever to the right.

The lift began to creak and crawl upwards. It was slow, but Clark stepped to the edge, peering out over the Northern landscape which emerged more and more as the lift climbed. He had forgotten what it felt like to be hundreds of feet in the air, whether in a skyscraper, a plane or anything of the sort. The people turned to ants below him, the castle a miniature. He felt his stupid grin emerge and swallowed it before turning to Ned Stark.

The Warden looked calm and collected, taking in the view but not indulging himself.

_Was there ever a time when Ned Stark allowed himself to feel excited after childhood? Did he ever have that opportunity?_

Knowing that these questions probably wouldn’t be answered, he settled on the matter at hand.

“If I may, my Lord, what came of the talks between you and Lord Mormont?” he called over the creaks of the gears.

Lord Stark shook his head. “Not now. Wait ‘til we’re up top.”

And so they remained silent for the remainder of the trip. The lift was slower than any elevator that Clark had ever ridden. Finally, at seven hundred feet, the lift halted and Ned opened the cage, walking calmly but carefully along the Wall. Clark followed, watching his own footing.

They walked for a minute or two east, before Ned turned north into an opening. They were on a platform, similar to the one where Jon and Sam stood watch during their first guard together. A fire ran in the brazier which Ned stood next to. Clark walked gingerly to the edge; his eyes transfixed on what laid beyond the Wall.

The haunted forest stretched as far as he could see, with enormous mountains to the east. The wind rushed to meet him. He lowered his eyes and focused on the tree line. No one stalked the forests, at least not from what he could see.

“They’re out there, aren’t they?” said Lord Stark, behind him.

He raised his eyes and stared out into the distance, a small part of him wanting to focus and see the Night King’s fortress glowing in the never-ending winter light. He chuckled at the thought.

_Staring across a thousand of miles of frozen tundra. You’re no Three-Eyed Raven, Clark._

He glanced back to Ned.

“They are. Far away at the moment, but they’ll come. For now, the Haunted Forest should be untouched.”

Ned stepped forward, staring beyond the Wall himself. He frowned at the harsh wind.

“So,” said Clark. “What did Lord Commander Mormont say?”

“The man appreciates the renewed interest in the Wall. It won’t be much, but the increased supplies and possibly, more suitable recruitment to the Wall will give us ample room to survey the situation ourselves and watch for any White Walker activity.”

Clark raised his eyebrows. “Does Mormont know he’s looking out for White Walkers?”

Ned shook his head. “No. However, the rangers have been hearing whispers of small conflicts in the far north. They believe it’s just another wilding skirmish. There’s nothing yet to suggest anything more. And I didn’t take it upon myself to enlighten him last night.”

Clark shrugged. “It wouldn’t do for the news of the White Walkers to come from a man who sits hundreds of miles south of the Wall. I’d suggest the possibility though, maybe tonight when you’re speaking with him. Mormont’s a Northerner. He knows the White Walkers are history, not myth. If you want help, you could try talking to Maester Aemon first. He’s more open to the possibility of ice monsters. Doesn’t hurt that your brother’s a ranger too.”

Silence fell between the men. Clark walked back to the brazier. Not that he needed it, but he could sense Lord Stark beginning to tremble. He raised his hands to the fire.

“And the Free Folk?”

Ned joined him at the brazier and sighed. “A stalemate. They’ve the Wall. Free Folk have the numbers. I suggested the beginning of a truce. Not a full amnesty. Not yet. But a few families and workers who can settle. We’ll need more men to harvest and work the land, not just to fight.”

“How did he respond?”

“Respectful disagreement. However I reminded him of the instability of the situation. If they’re in perpetual conflict, they’re unable to replace all of the brothers killed by the Free Folk. They’ll have to find another way or they’ll all be killed.

“Mormont seemed to respect that, but he’s new to his post. He’s experienced and commands respect. But no leader should begin his command with decisions that will divide his men. He’ll lose his support. It’s why I can’t declare total passage for the wildlings myself. Not to mention I’ve my own reservations.”

An image of Jon Snow lying dead in the snow flashed through Clark’s mind. Stabbed by his men…

“So we take it slow,” said Clark. “The suggestions will be planted. Hopefully they’ll take root and Mormont can enact peace offerings to the Free Folk.”

“Assuming they even let us approach.” Ned sighed. “I spoke with my brother. A ranger’s hardly able to get two words in with a wildling before they come to blows.”

Clark swallowed his next words and moved on. He didn’t wish to speak his thoughts on the Free Folk unless he succeeded in his mission.

“You spoke to Benjen?”

Ned nodded. “He’ll be the one who will smuggle you through the Wall tonight. Pack up what you need today and be ready. During the feast, he’ll leave. Give it a few moments before you excuse yourself. Then grab your supplies and head to the tunnel entrance. He’ll meet you there.”

Clark checked the surroundings, but they were truly alone. Even the crows were absent this morning.

“I assume he knows my trip beyond the Wall is a secret to the Watch.”

“He does.”

“And he’s not conflicted about going behind the Watch in aiding his brother?”

Ned met his eyes steadily. “He had some questions. I answered a few of them. I told him about the White Walkers.”

“Does he believe you?”

“He hasn’t seen any trace or evidence of them on his previous rangings. As I said, they believe the whispered troubles up north concern only the wildlings. No one else.”

Warmed by the brazier, Ned walked back to the edge. Still a safe distance away.

“However, he’s not entirely satisfied with that and neither are a few of the other rangers. Qhorin Halfhand has ranged farther north this winter than he has in years. What he has heard, or rather hasn’t heard, unsettles him, according to Benjen. And if Qhorin Halfhand is perturbed what by he hears, then Benjen believes it must be more than wildlings out there.”

Clark spat and dodged as the spit came back on the wind.

“So, in answer to my question, he’s all right going behind the Watch for this…or the Wall, I guess?”

Ned nodded. “Aye. I told him you wish to strike against the White Walkers before they have a chance to grow. He’s hesitant, but he agreed. Even if the White Walker threat is null, it’s just one insane man heading north. Anyway, the vast majority of the Night’s Watch doesn’t believe in the White Walkers. He can’t go to his men with this. Not yet.”

A ghost of a smile formed on Ned’s face.

“Besides, it’s not unlawful to venture beyond the Wall.”

“It’s not about the law. It’s about secrecy.”

The wind quieted at that moment. Ned turned away from beyond the Wall and looked back at the passage. They were still alone. He faced Clark head on.

“Do you know where you’re going?”

Clark nodded. “Rough idea. Might be risky, but I’ll ask Benjen for a starting point I’ve marked. If I need it.”

“Then I’ll say my farewell here and now. I’m afraid at supper tonight, it’ll be far more casual.”

“The Night’s Watch will think I’ve gone with you, even if they don’t see me the next morning. That I’ve gone ahead. What are you saying to your men? Should they ask.”

“You’re staying to explore the library further. Eastwatch’s library is paltry compared to this one.”

The Lord of Winterfell walked forward and grasped Clark’s hand, shaking it. The wind remained quiet for the farewell.

“Good luck, Tiresias.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark.”

He dropped his hand. “When should I expect to see you again?”

Clark shrugged. “Hopefully, I’ll join you guys on the march back from Eastwatch. Meet you at Last Hearth with the Umbers. If not…well, I’ll use Winterfell as a beacon and come limping back on the Kingsroad.”

“Do you really expect your errand to take so long?”

Clark chuckled. Errand. Strange word for what he planned to do.

“I have no earthly idea. I don’t want to spend more time out there than I have to and Craster is just one thing I need to take care of.”

Ned gave a nod, his eyes resolute. “All right. Until we see each other again.”

“Lord Stark,” said Clark, slightly interrupting the Warden. “I actually have something for you. If you have a place where you can keep it secret.”

Clark reached into his pocket and pulled out the sealed letter. He held onto it carefully, determined not to lose it to a sudden gust of wind. Ned eyed it.

“If I’m not back a year from now, you should consider me lost beyond the Wall,” he stated. “And you should open that. Not beforehand. And if I return, I’ll ask for this back, still sealed and I’ll destroy it.”

He handed the letter to Ned, who continued to stare at it.

“More warnings of the future?” he asked.

Clark nodded. “I had planned to let you in on these secrets gradually. But if I’m not there, you’re better off with it. I tried to include what details I felt were necessary, but I fear it may not be as comprehensive as I would like.”

He truly did try. He wrote briefly of the three Lannister bastards, the ambition of the Boltons, even of the coming double-edged sword of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, and more. It took all of his restraint to keep the letter as concise as possible. Even so, he watched Ned pocket the letter with some apprehension, as he tried to remember just one more detail to help. Just in case he didn’t return.

Ultimately though, nothing came to mind and he simply resolved to return. Lord Stark gave a final nod and walked away.

“Lord Stark,” called Clark.

Ned stopped and turned.

“Even if I succeed with Craster,” he began. “Even if the Night’s Watch, by some miracle, comes to an understanding with the Free Folk, don’t underestimate your enemies. The Night King, despite all our efforts, will still have his army. Even if it’s only half the size, he’ll have it and he’ll bring it to the North.”

The wind returned and Clark had to call out that last bit. Lord Stark stayed still, his fur cloak whipping out behind him.

“You said enemies,” he called back. “Whom else do you mean?”

Clark gave a grim smile. “Just hold on to that letter, Lord Stark. And know this, the end of days doesn’t necessarily make allies of all men.”

He shrugged. “That’s it. That’s all I have for now. Farewell, Lord Stark.”

The wind sang for a few more seconds. Finally Ned mirrored Clark’s grim smile. He tapped the pocket where he had stored the letter.

“Remember, during the feast, the tunnel,” he said. “We’ll be waiting for you to return.”

And with that, Lord Stark walked away. Clark stood by the brazier for a few more minutes, before turning north again.

The edge stood only ten feet away from him and he recalled a dwarf in a similar position, facing north as he urinated off the Wall. Checking once to make sure that he was truly alone, he stepped gingerly toward to the edge. He made to adjust his trousers when he peered down and saw the drop.

He froze and walked back slowly, retying his trousers, his heart pounding.

_Oh fuck no._

Whatever possessed Tyrion to do what he did, Clark didn’t have the same gumption. He glanced down at the Haunted Forest and then up into the distance. He laughed, cursing himself lightly. It wouldn’t bode well for his plans if he slipped off the Wall, pissing in a freefall.

* * *

Clark fought a low appetite and forced himself to eat during supper. It didn’t help that whatever meat they had found was cooked down to practically rubber. Clark’s jaw was aching by the time he was done with his portion.

_Oh well. Might sit in my stomach longer._

At least the ale didn’t taste nearly as sour as yesterday. Maybe he just got used to it overnight. He sat with his drink, looking to the high table every so often. Finally the moment came; Benjen Stark stood and finished his mug. He clapped Ned on the shoulder and exited the hall.

Sipping to cover his pounding heart, Clark remained seated. He needed to wait approximately ten minutes before leaving himself. He had to create enough of a berth…

Gord, seated next to him, nudged Clark.

“What’s got you so fascinated at the high table? No pretty ladies there to draw your eye.”

Clark yawned. “Just staring off. I’m tired.”

“Tired from what? Sitting on your arse, turning pages?”

The tone was teasing, but Clark couldn’t stop his voice from sounding tense.

“There’s different kinds of tired, Gord. Not just from swinging swords. I have been working all day. I’ve earned the right to a few yawns.”

“All right, all right, man. I know that. Just gaping. Sorry.”

Clark looked into Gord’s eyes and saw nothing malicious there or in his words. He sighed.

“It’s all right, Gord. I’m sorry for being an ass. I don’t know what's going on with me.”

That was a lie. The upcoming trek was looming by the minute. He had about eight more minutes.

Gord waved off his apology.

“No worries, mate. I bloody well can’t do the work you do.” He raised his tankard. “Cheers to our hasty forgiveness.”

“We’ve already cheered about ten times this evening, Gord.”

“Just raise your fucking ale.”

Clark started laughing. Gord joined him and together they clinked their mugs.

“To your library, Tiresias.”

“Winterfell’s library, my friend,” corrected Clark lightly. “To your sword and your lessons, to which I am extremely grateful.”

They drank. Clark finished his ale first and made his decision. It might be a little early, but the cheer was a good note to leave on. He waited until Gord finished his before standing.

“You off already mate?” asked Gord.

Clark clapped his friend’s shoulder. “There’s a massive amount of work left to do here, Gord. It’s why I’m staying behind while you lot march off to Eastwatch. This evening’s no different.”

Gord patted his hand. “Well, fare you well then, Tiresias. Don’t tire your eyes too much with the ink of dead men.”

“I’ll do my best. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a quick word with our betters.”

He walked between the tables until he got to the edge, making his way to the high table. Halting before the table in front of the Lord Commander, he waited for a few seconds until Jeor Mormont noticed him.

“Excuse me, Lord Commander, for interrupting your dinner.” He swallowed his spit. “I only wanted to thank you personally for the donation of tomes to the Winterfell library.”

Jeor Mormont peered at him with polite interest. “Your name is…?”

“Tiresias, Lord Commander, the librarian at Winterfell.” He nodded toward Ned Stark, seated beside Jeor. “Courtesy of Lord Stark here, of course. Anyway, thank you again, Lord Commander.”

Jeor Mormont nodded. “Well, with all Winterfell has brought us on this visit and the promise of future support withstanding, a small literary donation seems more than fair.”

“Not small by any means,” said Clark, gesturing to Maester Aemon. “Maester Aemon was very generous.”

The blind man nodded in Clark’s direction. Jeor proceeded to cut his beef, which looked only slightly more appetizing than what Clark just ate.

“Well, however many you take south with you, I hope they find more eager readers than they found here,” said Lord Mormont, before taking a measured bite.

Sensing his dismissal, Clark stepped back.

“I’m sure they will,” he said, before giving a slight bow. “Good evening, Lord Commander. Lord Stark,” he added in Ned’s direction.

Ned nodded casually, his eyes meeting Clark’s. They both knew what this goodbye was.

_I hope I see you again, Lord Stark._

He entered the courtyard from the dining room, sighing in relief at the cool wind. Dinner in a hot, crowded hall with no one but men was not his idea of comfort. Also the smell was not great. The sensitivity he’d acquired was ideal for a trek in nature. Not in close quarters with vastly stinky men. Even just two nights was testing his patience.

The stables were deserted, save for the animals. Crossing to the wagons, Clark retrieved his supplies including the food he’d stolen from the kitchens earlier, his bow and arrows and the tied woven sack he’d been hiding since they left Winterfell. Double-checking that the trunk of tomes was sealed properly and that he had his dagger on his left side, he donned his fur jacket and left the stables.

He crossed the edge of courtyard quickly, confident that most were at the feast tonight. Even the patrols on the southern entrance were more transfixed by their fires than any activity inside the castle.

Having marked the location of the tunnel entrance earlier in the day, Clark exited the courtyard, his footsteps through the snow growing louder as he neared the Wall, further from the feasting black brothers. He turned the corner and saw the open entrance to the tunnel. Benjen Stark stood there, next to a sled piled with canvas, his eyes narrowed in on Clark, as he approached.

Halting before him, Clark held out his hand.

“Hello Benjen Stark. I’m Tiresias.”

Benjen took his hand, but it seemed automatic. He looked around and dropped his hand almost immediately.

“All right, come on, when no one’s looking,” he muttered, turning and striding into the tunnel, dragging the sled behind him. Clark followed without hesitation, really hoping that no one saw him entering the tunnel.

They walked quietly. Clark didn’t trust himself to speak. The echoes from these walls could carry all the way back to the entrance. As they walked through the ice tunnel, he also felt a tingle that he couldn’t quite identify. It was similar to what he felt in the godswood at Winterfell.

Benjen lit a torch halfway through when the darkness became too much. He focused ahead, but Clark could sense the unasked questions being shot in his direction. And the incredulity. It was only on the brotherly trust between Benjen and Ned that allowed him to proceed north.

They reached the gate. Clark could hear the evening wind pounding against the iron. Benjen placed the torch in a holder and proceed to strip all the canvas off the sled. Once the sled was bare, he turned to Clark.

“Take your bags off. Lie down and hold them on top.”

Swallowing his questions, Clark positioned himself on the sled, placing the bag between his feet, his bow and arrows by his arm and the rucksack on top. As he laid his head down, he saw Benjen take the torch and open a small slot in the iron gate. He struck the torch through against the wind and held it for a solid ten seconds.

“Signaling the watchman up top,” he explained. He withdrew the torch and closed the slot, placing the torch back in the holder.

“That should do it,” he muttered, picking up the canvas and turning to Clark. “Now don’t move.”

He proceeded to cover the sled with the canvas. Clark only had time to see his feet being concealed. The material doubled over and he was blinded. Dust and whatever these canvases used to hold filled his nostrils. He sniffed and guessed straw.

Something was tightening around his feet and worked its way up his body. He heard Benjen pulling ropes along the underside of the sled and securing it up before another sound entered his world. A great creaking as the iron gate lifted.

The first sound in the show…as the black brothers ventured north of the Wall…

As the creaking stopped, the sled jolted as he started to move.

“All right,” said Benjen, somewhere above him. “Keep still and silent. It’ll be a while.”

The wind may not have chilled him, but he still felt it as he was sledded over the snow. They were in the open area in between the Haunted Forest and the Wall and nothing was there to protect Benjen from the wind. Clark hoped he was warm enough from the exertion. He also hoped he wasn’t too heavy.

Benjen had spoken true. The sled ride was a long journey and Clark found himself more impatient than he expected to be and focused to calm down. He didn’t like being tied up, but he also preferred not being found out and so he tolerated this constricted sled ride.

The sled glided gracefully enough though. More so than the wagon ride on the Kingsroad here. He gripped his supplies and closed his eyes. A part of him was tempted to try and sleep. He wasn’t sure when he would get another chance to sleep on a flat surface. Also he wanted to rest before he got started. When he set up camp next, he wanted his fire to be out of sight of the Night’s Watch that patrolled the Wall.

It would be a long trek on his part tonight.

He heard the wind die down and he surmised that they had reached the Haunted Forest. Tuning his ears, he heard animal cries. Most sounded solitary. The eerie music that accompanied the travelers in the show was absent and not for the first time, he missed Ramin Djawadi. However, he was also glad for the cold silence. It focused him.

Finally the sled stopped. He heard Benjen catching his breath and then felt the ropes loosen. A fresh gust of air swept over him as the canvases flew off. Benjen stood, flushed and slightly panting.

Clark slowly sat up, feeling his limbs stretch as he did. He placed his supplies on the snowy ground and glanced from Benjen to the trees. A pile of bags sat piled by a tree. High in the sky, a series of lights laid in a straight line and he blinked. The Wall stood behind the trees, perhaps half a mile from them, the lights of the watch beacons in the darkness.

“They can’t see us from here,” said Benjen, answering his unspoken question. “I came here this morning with those bags. I return with them tonight. From that distance…” He nodded to the top of the Wall. “A sled topped with bags looks enough like what I brought out.”

“What will you say you were doing out here?”

“Ranger business.”

Clark turned his eyes from the Wall and scanned the forest that would be his home for hopefully not too long. It certainly did look dark and foreboding. However that was the usual feeling he got whenever he went camping after sundown. Every morning felt like relief to a fun nightmare.

However none of his fun nightmares brought on by camping were encroached on by White Walkers or any other dangers beyond the Wall. He shook himself. He had to get going. Shouldering his rucksack and quiver, he turned to pick up his bow and saw Benjen staring at him.

“Yes?” he asked, hopefully not too impolitely.

Benjen eyed his attire. “Is that all you’re wearing?”

Clark patted his clothes down. He certainly looked underdressed. Aside from the fur jacket, he was dressed for an overcast day in autumn and definitely not for beyond the Wall.

“This isn’t my first time wandering about in the cold, Stark.”

“You've never been in this cold before.”

Clark picked up his bow. It was unstrung, the hemp bowlines in the rucksack. He’d double-checked it in the stables.

“I already gave my word to one Stark that I can survive in this cold. Do I have to give it to another?”

Benjen said nothing to that. He strode to the bags by the trees and began loading them onto the sled. He threw the canvas over and began roping it. Clark waited for it, the question building inside the youngest brother.

Finally, Benjen stood and faced Clark. The darkness was no deterrent to Clark and he saw every ounce of controlled bewilderment, grim fear and determination in Benjen’s face. The determination was perhaps not so pure as Ned’s (life as a ranger was no joke) but he could definitely read them as siblings.

“Why do you say the White Walkers are back?”

“I saw them.”

“Not in the flesh.”

“Fortunately no. Least not yet.”

“So in prophecies then? Dreams? Visions?”

Clark shrugged. “Take your pick. I’m sorry that that’s not a great explanation, but I’m afraid I don’t know how to describe it. It’s just a future that I’m determined to change. It’s…complicated.”

“I just don’t know how you convinced my brother to go along with it.”

“I’m sure he told you enough. Otherwise you wouldn’t have helped me past the Wall.”

Benjen didn’t deny this. Silence reigned in the Haunted Forest, even the birds were quiet. Clark knelt down and opened the sack.

“I know you’ve heard rumblings from Qhorin Halfhand from the far North. Skirmishes that seem unnatural. The farthest villages missing their Free Folk. Come a few years and those disappearances will come south enough to be noticed by the Night's Watch. Rangers will start to disappear. Until finally on a night like this one, you’ll notice blue eyes peering at you from the darkness. They’ll be the last thing you see.,”

He looked to Benjen, who seemed to grow more still.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t set another foot beyond the Wall. No more ranging. The dangers that will plague Westeros will appear here first and you won’t be prepared for them, wandering about here.”

Benjen gained a little life in his eyes and shook his head.

“I’m a ranger. We all accept that we may die beyond the Wall. It’s common. I won’t hide in Castle Black as they come closer.”

Clark sighed. “I figured you’d say that.”

He withdrew an obsidian knife from the bag. Benjen stepped back immediately, his hand on his sword. Clark rolled his eyes.

“Calm down, it’s a gift.” He turned the knife handle-first and held it out to Benjen.

“Carry this with you at all times. Especially when you go ranging. The White Walkers and their wights, their slaves, they won’t fall to normal steel. This, fire and Valyrian steel are the only weapons worth carrying against them.”

Benjen stepped forward gingerly and took the knife. He eyed it warily.

“There should be more coming to Castle Black. However, they probably won’t come until the Night’s Watch actually believes in the threat. Jeor Mormont is beginning to. As Maester Aemon might be, however they’ll need to be more.”

Clark tied the bag around the yew bow and propped it across his shoulder.

“Thank you for your help, Benjen Stark. I hope to see you again one day. Good luck in your rangings.”

He held out his hand to shake. Benjen gripped it, though the look in his eye was still questioning. After looking to the stars and determining northwest, Clark gave a final nod before walking off into the trees.

A part of him wondered if he should have pushed Benjen to recognize that the Free Folk would need to be let through the Wall for the sake of all of their survival. Benjen certainly seemed more sympathetic than the average brother of the Night’s Watch. However that seemed like overkill. He trusted Benjen to see the logic in helping the Free Folk as a preliminary strike against the White Walkers.

He still felt doubt, though the doubt was tempered as he looked back and saw Benjen sheathing the dragonglass in his belt, before returning to the sled and pulling it away, back to the Wall.

Turning back to the darkness of the Haunted Forest, he continued to walk. His eyes were attuned already, but he was already a little hungry. He cursed himself. He should have forced himself to eat more of that rubberized mystery meat during the feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this week. See you next Tuesday!
> 
> Also, shoutout to LucretiusCarus, who foresaw the letter Clark would leave. I swear to God, I had that written before your comment, even though I know there's no way to prove it!
> 
> Also also, I've been reading a couple other fanfics on here and would like to recommend "The Damned Bastard" by Clearanceclarence. It's very good and updated every week as well.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers!
> 
> Due to my Monday and Tuesday being incredibly busy this week, I've decided to upload this chapter early. Chapter Eighteen will be published on May 26th!
> 
> Nevertheless, I'm excited to post this one. I think this was the most fun chapter to write so far.

Karsi winced, hissing as the ointment touched her cut. She willed her arm to stay put.

“Don’t flinch,” muttered Boren, his dark green eyes still focused on her wound. He had their mother's eyes. As did she.

“I didn’t flinch,” she muttered back. Boren responded with more ointment that stung less and less. Finally she sighed in relief. She regretted doing so immediately as she caught Boren’s smirk.

“Shut up,” she said.

“Yeh the one making a mountain out of a wee cut.”

He put the ointment away and began bandaging it.

“Yeh the one fussing over it,” said Karsi.

“Aye and thanks to me fussing, that wee cut will remain a wee cut and not rot ye arm off. Don’t need Pa skinning me for that.”

Karsi sat quietly after that. She knew he was right and she did breathe easier knowing that the cut would heal properly. Still didn’t stop her from wanting to punch her brother’s laughing smile off his smug face.

At least she got the kill though. The meat that they had roasted tonight was due to her spear. She knew Boren was proud. It wasn’t her first hunt, but it was her first trek into the Haunted Forest without their father. He was about a month away, still on the Frozen Shore, along with her mother and second brother. They were all worried for her, but she was sixteen now. The tribe needed her strength.

Their worry was lessened as it was her brother who led their party. It was actually strange to have a moment alone with Boren. Collum and Macha were usually right by their side. Father had them all swear to stay close to her. To keep her from being stolen.

Not that she couldn’t defend herself. A hulking bastard with several missing teeth in Whitetree attempted to make off with her in the night and lost his ear for it. She now wore it around her neck along with the bear teeth and the seashells from her mother. Thankfully the stink was beginning to disappear, but she still might throw it away upon returning home. That toothless man wasn’t worth a keepsake.

A creak in the distance prompted her to grab her spear and Boren his axes, but they relaxed shortly after. The creaking quickly became casual footfalls and they were only two people around that would approach their campfire as so.

Sure enough, Collum and Macha entered the glow of the flames. Collum sat immediately, dumping the full skins of water on the ground. His right eye was swollen shut and he extended his leg gingerly.

Boren sucked on a bone, before tossing it. “How’s the eye, Collum?”

“Fuck off,” Collum growled.

Karsi wasn’t the only attempted stealing in Whitetree. When Collum entered the village, with the use of both his eyes, he had fixed them determinedly on a lass with golden hair, like straw. That night, he disappeared from their campfire and returned shortly thereafter, limping with a bleeding face and a swelling eye. The lass didn’t seem like a fighter, but apparently she had brothers.

Collum stayed behind when they went to trade the next morning.

“Leave the man alone, Boren,” said Macha, as she dropped the wood she was carrying. “Both his eye and balls are swollen and he can’t find relief for either.”

Karsi started laughing. “That’s not all true, Macha. He could find some relief. Why don’t you go and take care of it yourself, Collum? That blonde lass might not have wanted ye seed, but I’m sure that tree over there won’t mind.”

Boren and Macha started laughing so hard, they could barely sit upright. Collum made to stand, but stilled as Boren raised an axe.

“Careful now, Collum,” he said, still smiling. “That’s me little sister after all.”

“I can tell,” muttered Collum, sitting back and reaching for his skin. “Couple of seashelled cunts.”

“Aye, well, we be the only cunts yeh be seeing for a good while, Collum,” said Boren, his grin growing wider. “So best be nice and shut the fuck up. Go on, drink ye milk.”

Collum looked ready to pommel Boren. Fortunately he was in no condition to wrestle anyone and just took a draught from his skin. A trickle of sour milk escaped into his short, black patch of a beard. Karsi let a breath go. As fun as it was to needle Collum, it wouldn’t do if they came to serious blows. And they’ve come close on a few occasions during this trek. She was relieved that they were heading home in a few days.

Speaking of relief, she stood and stalked off.

“Where yeh off to?” called Boren.

“Need to piss” she yelled, not looking back.

She walked farer than necessary. It really wasn’t safe, considering the rumors that have come down from the north. But that was far away. And if there was anyone near that come to steal her, Macha would have noticed them while she was out collecting firewood.

Besides she had found a perfect spot earlier before sunset, just down the hill. The valley opened up through a slot in the trees and the moon was just out enough to illuminate up every snow-laden tree before her. It was silent. She loved her brother fiercely, but it was nice to have a piss every once in a while without hearing his voice or any others in the distance.

She lowered her trousers and squatted, trying not to tremble at the chill. She focused on the forest below, taking in the view. Scanning from west to east, she sighed in relief.

And then she saw it.

She blinked and focused. Down below in the valley, the glow of a campfire shone through the distant trees.

Karsi stared at it for several seconds before remembering herself. She stood, pulling her trousers up, all the while keeping that fire in sight.

All of the sudden, the forest seemed a lot less safe. She glanced around her and strained her ears, but she was truly alone. Her eyes darted back to the faint fire one last time before she turned back.

Her own campfire came into sight quickly. Boren must have heard her, as he started calling.

“Yeh went off too far, Karsi,” he called as she came near the campfire and stood in front of him. “Yeh can’t do that. Yeh need to be able to hear me if I call yeh and I need to be able to hear yeh.”

He raised his head to tell her off more, but then he saw her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s a fire.”

Boren sat up. “A forest fire?”

“No, a campfire. Down below in the valley. Two miles out. Maybe one and a half.”

“So what?” said Collum. He made to take another swig, but Macha stopped him, her eyes alert.

“It’s not anyone we know,” said Karsi.

Collum freed his arm, yanking his skin back. “Oh, yeh can tell that from two miles off?”

“It could be someone from Whitetree,” said Boren, though he looked doubtful.

“It’s not anyone from Whitetree. No one would stray out of the village this time of the night,” muttered Macha. She was calm, ever calm, but her eyes were bright and alert as she turned to her brother.

“Boren...I’d say it’s worth a look from you.”

That swayed it for Boren. He got up, grabbing his axes and turned to Karsi.

“Take me to where yeh saw it. Macha, Collum, stay here and get ready to move if we have to.”

Macha and Collum nodded, though Collum didn't bother hiding his annoyance. The sounds of them packing their supplies faded as Boren and Karsi walked into the forest. She hoped that the distant fire still glowed, that it wasn’t just her eyes deceiving her.

However, as they came into the gap in the trees and stared out, Karsi immediately spotted it again. She didn’t even have to point it out to Boren. His eyes narrowed in on the spot.

“That’s no fire for any Free Folk,” he stated quietly, as though his voice could carry all the way down to the mystery flame. “Too big for one man.”

“What if it’s a group?”

“Could be. Might not be too many. It’s just one fire.”

“So what do we do?”

Boren exhaled, the thick fog from the cold coming through his nostrils.

“We check it out. All of us.”

“All of us?”

“Aye. Pity there’s no warg with us. We’ll keep a safe ways away though. Count their numbers. Go from there.”

They returned to the campfire. Macha and Collum stood up immediately. After confirming the distant fire and the plan to investigate, the camp was quickly dissolved. Food and supplies were hung high. The fire doused and skins tightened for a night walk. Even Collum dropped his snark. Most of it anyway.

After showing Macha and Collum the distant fire from the same tree gap, they proceeded toward it. Macha knew these woods better than them all and led the group down into the valley. They lost sight of the fire as they descended, but Macha kept them in the right direction. Karsi followed her, with Collum limping lightly behind and Boren bringing up the protective rear.

They hiked lightly through the woods for the first mile, before halting. Macha went ahead to survey, leaving the rest to wait. Karsi sat anxiously, wondering if too much time had passed. No one spoke in case others were nearby.

Finally they heard someone approaching. Tensing up, they raised their weapons and lowered them upon seeing Macha come back through the trees.

“Just one man,” she said slightly breathless. “Didn’t get too close, but it’s just one. Wasn’t Free Folk.”

“Anything special?” asked Boren.

She shrugged. “One sack and a bag. Nice bow. Arrows. The animal in the pit was carved, so probably a knife on him too.”

“Any other weapons?”

Macha shook her head. “Not that I could see.”

Boren scratched his beard.

“All right,” he said. “Might as well take a prize. Macha, how’s the land?”

Macha knelt in the snow and drew an easy map of the campfire, signaling the hiding spots for the best approach.

“If we separate after a quartermile in, we should be able to surround him without him noticing. The surrounding snow is packed hard. You can walk quietly with some care.”

“So we killing him, Boren?” asked Karsi. A trickle of nerves that she didn’t expect came into her voice. It was one thing to cut off a man’s ear trying to steal her. Another thing to hunt one in the night.

She swallowed hard, ashamed of her weakness. She was sixteen. She had to learn how to kill sooner than later. However, Boren was kind enough to not comment on her nerves.

“That’ll be me task, should it come to that,” he said. “If I need help, Macha will come in. Yeh stay out unless we need yeh. Understand?”

Karsi nodded.

“What about me?” asked Collum.

“Yeh a useless nipp, Collum” said Boren, grinning for the first time since they started walking. “At best, yeh moan like a bitch at our man, distracting him from the real knife coming out of the dark.”

They spent the next minute calming Collum down. After they formulated a plan, they crept into the darkness, walking carefully until it came time to split up. Boren went straight ahead, Macha and Collum stalked to the east and Karsi treaded lightly to the west.

She didn’t look at her brother disappearing into the trees. Focusing her eyes to see in the darkness, she weaved between the trees lightly, stepping from rock to rock to mask her footfalls. After a short while, a faint light began to shine through the trees. The campfire was coming up in the darkness.

A trickle of water caught her ear. A light stream was flowing through the forest. It seemed the mysterious stranger had picked this spot for a good reason. He just should have anticipated others to come through as well…

She was glad to hear water running again. Her fingers brushed the shells on her necklace lightly. The ones her mother gave her. She treaded along the stream. The water wasn’t flowing strongly, but it would mask any remaining noise from her footsteps. The fire was coming nearer...

A hundred feet off, she went behind a tree. Her heart was pounding and she breathed to calm it, gripping her spear tightly. She exhaled silently and peered around the tree.

Indeed, it was only one man before the camp fire, sitting cross-legged. He was cleaning his hands with water from a skin. He shook his hands, flicking the water off before raising them to the fire to dry. The remains of a mangled rabbit sat next to him. It wasn’t a clean job and he made no effort to save the skin.

_He’s definitely no Free Folk, _thought Karsi. And if she needed anything more to prove so, he started singing a song she’d never heard before. His voice was low and soft, but it carried to her…

“Sometimes I wonder why I spend  
The lonely night dreaming of a song  
The melody haunts my reverie  
And I am once again with you  
  
When our love was new  
And each kiss an inspiration  
Oh but that was long ago  
Now my consolation is in the stardust of a song  
  
Beside the garden wall when stars are bright  
You are in my arms  
The nightingale tells his fairy tale  
Of paradise where roses grew  
  
Though I dream in vain  
In my heart it will remain  
My stardust melody  
The memory of love's refrain.”

He started to whistle and Karsi took the opportunity to look around. Only because she knew where to look to, did she see her brother. Boren had snuck even closer to the fire. She couldn’t see Macha or Collum on the other side, but she knew they were in position.

The man had stopped whistling and was singing again.

“Though I dream in vain  
In my heart it will remain  
My stardust melody  
The memory of love's refrain.”

The last note hung in the air before falling like a gentle snow. She glanced at her brother and knew that he was just as bewildered as she was. She didn’t need to see his face to know that.

Her whole being itched to do something, but she waited. Boren was to make the first move and right now, it seemed that he was deciding between a violent first strike or a disarming friendly approach. She could see him trying to decide which.

However, before he could decide, she heard the stranger call.

“If you’d like to come out and join me, you’re more than welcome to share my fire. I daresay I made a bigger one than necessary.”

Her blood froze and she saw her brother still as well. Swallowing and willing her heart to slow, she peered slowly around the tree. Which one did he detect?

The stranger’s attention was to his fire. He fed it, his fingers entering the flames, laying down a stick. If it bothered him, he didn’t show it.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any more rabbit to offer you” he called, before raising his head and looking right in her direction.

_Shit._

She got back behind the tree and cursed herself. She fucked up. Her first time out with her brother and she fucked it up.

“But I do have some wine, if any of you would care to drink some,” the stranger continued.

Karsi froze in the middle of her silent beratement.

_Any of us?_

She peered around again and saw that the stranger was now looking in the opposite direction. Where Macha and Collum were…

_How in the hell did he detect Macha? Did Collum fuck up?_

“Please,” said the stranger. He was actually smiling and turned to the tree where Boren was hiding. “Come on out and have some wine. I’m actually glad your scout went back and got the rest of you. It’s too much for only two people to drink.”

Karsi stared at her brother, waiting for his cue. The stranger was completely relaxed. He didn’t even have his bow in hand. His attention returned to the fire. And yet she really didn’t want to approach. She saw Boren leaning behind his tree and held her breath, waiting for his lead.

Finally, her brother straightened and stepped out, his axes still raised. The stranger regarded him calmly, remaining seated before returning his gaze to the fire.

“Are you the only one coming then? You’re definitely not the one that came to spy on me earlier.”

Her brother remained standing, glaring at the stranger who picked up a stick and prodded the flames. Karsi remained behind the tree, not moving a muscle.

Finally Boren lowered his axes and turned to her. He nodded.

_Oh fuck me._

She came from behind her tree with her spear up, not ready to relax just yet. As she came into the light of the fire, Boren turned in Macha’s direction, but Macha had already come forward. She had her spear up as well. Collum hadn’t come with her and Karsi fought hard not to look in his direction. No doubt he was there in the dark, with his bow at the ready.

All three of them stood before this stranger and his blaze. Karsi got her first real look at him. Maybe it was only the fire, but he was very thin. The flames created dark shadows on his face. Perhaps as old as her brother. His hair was far too short and he was shaved clean like a southern prince.

The man reached behind him. Boren stepped forward, again raising his axes. He and the stranger locked eyes for a bit, but the stranger just smiled and pulled out a skin.

“Would you care for the wine?” he asked, his voice softer than the flames. “You could at least sit.”

Boren didn’t move and neither did she or Macha. The stranger sighed.

“It’s not poison.” He tipped the skin and took a decent draught. Wiping his mouth, he looked from Macha to Boren to her. His eyes were quite relaxed and regarded her easily.

Maybe too easily. His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than the others and something shone in them that she didn’t like. It wasn’t the leer she saw in Whitetree or from the other men. But it didn’t make her skin crawl less.

He did look away, but not before smiling and tucking his head, laughing to himself lightly.

“Something funny about us?” said Boren, who had barely lowered his axes.

“No, no,” said the stranger, shaking his head and meeting his eyes. “Just…I think you’re exactly the ones I was meant to find here.”

Macha meet Karsi’s wary stare with her own. The stranger held out the skin again.

“So…would any of you care to sit? Or to drink? I wish you would. This wine is too sweet for me to drink alone.”

The river and fire conversed alone for a time, while the rest of them waited for someone to break the silence. Finally Boren lowered his axes. He crossed and snagged the skin from the stranger roughly, but the stranger’s hackles didn’t raise.

Boren sat down, facing the stranger, whose attention fell again to the fire. Her brother drank carefully and Macha gave Karsi a significant look. The Free Folk had differing views on many things, but guest rights were held as high here as they were south of the Wall. Many Free Folk would say that they had forfeited the right to attack and rob this stranger, by taking his offered drink. And he had lost the right to harm them as well.

Then again, whoever this man was, he was no Free Folk. This campfire or any other spot north of the Wall was not his home. Karsi felt that and she was sure that Boren did too.

Boren lowered the skin and passed it to Macha. She sat and drank too and passed it back to Boren, who hesitated before offering it to her. Without taking her eyes off the stranger, she sat next to her brother and took the wineskin. She drank and nearly gagged. The stranger was right. It was too sweet.

She capped the skin and tossed it back. The stranger caught it without looking up. As his arm raised, she could see a sheathed dagger at his side. Good craftsmanship. And real steel too, probably. If it should come to attacking this man, she would claim the dagger from his corpse. Convince Boren to let her have it. Could probably slice through ears easier…

The stranger looked from the skin to them.

“Would your friend care for a drink as well? The one with the limp?”

Karsi gripped her spear automatically. She looked to her brother and Macha. It was hard to see which of one was more on edge.

The stranger glanced off in Collum’s direction and back to them.

“He’s more than welcome to stay out in the cold, with that arrow pointed at my heart. Just figured he’d rather have the fire and the wine.”

He looked to Macha.

“You must trust his skill greatly. You’re almost in his line of fire.”

Macha’s jaw tightened. Boren breathed heavily through his nose. Of all of the stories, Boren had told her from his excursions, she couldn’t think of anything that resembled this. The only possible explanation for this stranger’s sight was through others. Were there any wargs south of the Wall? Or wherever the hell this man was from?

In any case, they had numbers on him and having Collum in the dark from a distance seemed like a waste. Boren seemed to have come to the same conclusion and turned to the dark. He raised his arm and waved Collum in.

“’S all right. Come on. Make sure yeh lower that fucking arrow when yeh do,” he called.

A few seconds passed before Collum answered.

“’S all right, then?”

“Aye, yeh fool. It’s what I fucking said.”

“Yeh know him, Boren?”

Boren gritted his teeth and Karsi nearly laughed before remembering where she was.

“Nah, I don’t. And thanks for telling him me fucking name.”

There were no further words until Collum came limping into the firelight, the bow slung across his back. He dropped to the ground next to Macha, letting out a low sigh of relief, before regarding the stranger. The stranger nodded to him.

“Evening.”

Collum nodded back warily. “’Ello,” he muttered.

The stranger tossed the wineskin to Collum, who looked to the others.

“I saw yeh drink from this. ‘S all right, then?”

“Aye,” said Macha. “We still breathe.”

Karsi realized that Macha and Boren hadn’t taken their eyes off the stranger and cursed herself for doing so. Snapping her eyes back to him, she realized that he was sitting on his furs instead of wearing them.

_Fucking idiot_. _Freezing his arse off for a softer seat. Fire’s not that warm._

The thought chilled her as she regarded the stranger further. No trembling. No tension. The ease that accompanied this stranger…how could he be so relaxed in this chill? He wore only a wool shirt for his top and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, the top part slightly open. No beard…

Was he not freezing…?

…How the hell was he not freezing?

She looked around and she could tell by the way Boren and Macha were staring at the man, that they had the same thought. They must have. No Free Folk bared his skin for the cold to take it. Not even in the safety of the flames.

Collum would reach the same conclusion at some point. Right now, he was on his third draught of the wine. He lowered the skin, eyeing the man.

“Yeh gave us wine,” he said. “Care to give us ye name too?”

Karsi winced at his slurred speech, remembering the goat’s milk he’d been nursing all evening. He’d be staggering back to camp later.

“My name is Tiresias,” said the stranger. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

Tiresias…not a name she’d ever heard before…

“You’re no Free Folk, Tiresias,” asked Macha, adding the name a little late. “Where you from?”

“Winterfell.”

“Horseshit,” stated Boren, his voice low. “I’ve killed men from the North. Yeh don’t sound like them.”

Tiresias shrugged. “Well, it’s the place I’ve stayed the longest since arriving in Westeros. If I’m not from there, I’m not from anywhere really.”

“And before Westeros?”

Tiresias gave a small laugh. “Across the Narrow Sea…last of a nomadic people, that’s what I’ve been saying. Maybe one day I’ll believe it myself.”

Boren’s nostrils began to flare. Macha interjected.

“You ain’t from across the Sea?” she asked, more to calm Boren.

“It’s certainly a more possible explanation than what actually happened,” murmured Tiresias. He seemed bemused for a bit, before focusing on Boren and then to her.

Karsi stilled and met his gaze evenly.

“It’s less difficult than to say that I woke up in a story. A wonderful, exciting story that will bring chaos and misery to all who live it. Someone or something opened the book and ushered me in. And I…I’ve decided to stay and sabotage it. Balance the chaos. Limit the misery. Make it so very boring.”

He broke his gaze with her, returning to the fire and she instantly relaxed. Eyeing the others, they all seemed to come to the same conclusion. They’ve come across a mad man. A quiet one, but still mad.

Would they to rob him now, Boren would still make the first move. However, at the moment, he seemed keen to wait.

Tiresias looked up.

“You know my name. May I have the rest of yours? Unless you all wish to be called Boren?”

“Why?” asked Boren. “Do yeh need to know who robbed yeh?”

Tiresias smiled. “Like to know my drinking companions.”

“We ain’t ye companions. Yeh in the true North now, Tiresias. Here, yeh earn names.”

There was a pause as Tiresias absorbed these words. He nodded, the small smile still there.

“How about a wager then?” he suggested, his eyes taking each one of them in. “If I can guess one of your names, not including yours,” he added to Boren. “The other two introduce themselves.”

There was a silence and Tiresias seemed content to wait it out. Glances were exchanged between the four of them and Boren became as still as stone. More to move this horseshit along, despite a strange feeling in her gut, Karsi spoke up.

“I’ll take that wager.”

“Just wait…”

“Shut the fuck up, Boren. It’s not ye name we’re waging.” She turned to Collum and Macha. Collum shrugged and after a beat, Macha nodded.

Tiresias leaned behind him and pulled a couple of sticks for the fire. He laid them in gently.

“Gonna read our names in the flames?” Karsi asked.

“I’m no fire priest,” said Tiresias. His eyes reflected the flames regardless. “Never could pronounce the name of their god anyway.”

He leaned back, sighing.

“Anyway, Karsi, thank you for taking my wager.”

She felt her brother tense besides her, but she couldn’t move. Frozen, she sat staring at this cross-legged stranger, who threw her name out as one would remark upon a light morning snow.

_I’ve never met this man before. I know it! How the fuck did he…how? It’s just..._

Tiresias met her stare with his relaxed gaze. It was even kind. She found herself unnerved by that kindness. She wanted something she could fight and demand answers from.

Instead she managed to swallow and speak.

“How the fuck did yeh know my name?”

Tiresias began to laugh.

“I thought I recognized you. My God…it’s remarkable, you don’t know how remarkable…”

“I’ve never seen yeh before in my life,” Karsi snarled.

“I didn’t say you had.” Tiresias stopped laughing, but his bastarding kind smile stayed as he gazed at her. “But I certainly have seen you. I’ve seen you in a very possible future.”

Karsi glared at this stranger, ignoring the snort from Collum.

“The future…” Collum muttered, disdain dripping from his tongue. He threw the wineskin back to the stranger. “What are yeh then? To know names? To give futures? Some cockless woodwitch?”

His bluster wasn’t shared by Macha or Boren, who sat staring at Tiresias. Boren had a dangerous glint in his eye and Karsi couldn’t blame him. The knowing look in this mad man’s eye was more unsettling to her than any leer she could remember. Her glare felt more and more like a useless shield as the seconds passed.

However, Tiresias turned his eyes to Collum and Karsi remembered to breathe.

“I’m no woodwitch,” he said lightly. “I’m just Tiresias, a very blind prophet.”

“Prophet?” repeated Macha, her eyebrows raised.

“Not a very substantial one. I only see one possible future. And that’s the story I’m trying to sabotage.”

He lifted the skin and sipped, wiping his mouth.

“However, in the story I saw, I didn’t see you two. Though I heard of you,” he said, nodding to Boren. “Would you grace me with your names? Honor the wager?”

Macha only hesitated for a second before conceding.

“I’m Macha,” she said. All eyes turned to Collum, who shrugged.

“Collum.”

“Well, it’s good to meet all of you, Collum, Macha, Boren, and Karsi.” He turned to each of them as he said their names. Karsi felt herself wince as he said hers. But she held her gaze upon the madman. They all did, and so there was a cold silence.

Tiresias sighed, going back to the fire. “The feeling’s not mutual, I see.”

“Yeh gonna say how you really know my name?” said Karsi. She spoke low, emulating her father’s voice as he showed his strength to others. “Yeh sure didn’t fucking see it in a storybook.”

“Why not?” asked Tiresias. “Many names and deeds travel through story. I just happened to have heard this one before it happened. You’re certainly not the only one I’ve heard of in this story.”

He raised his head. “Tell me, do you know of Tormund? Kissed by fire? Does he goes by Giantsbane yet?”

Macha and Boren exchanged a quick glance, but they said nothing. A memory of a laughing, bearded man flashed through Karsi’s mind. Sour milk leaked through the ginger’s beard as he recounted his time at a giant’s teat. The laughing spilled into a fight which left Boren with a black eye and two broken ribs. They parted on good terms.

“Friend of yours?” Collum asked mockingly.

Tiresias shook his head. “Not yet. Though I hope to meet him. I suppose that he’s with Mance Rayder now, is he not? Tell me, has Mance already approached your people about the Free Folk banding together against what’s rising up north?”

Karsi didn’t think it was possible for her blood to turn even colder. Whispers from the far north, the Land of Always Winter, reached their ears only a few moons ago. Mance visited their village before they left. He arrived with Free Folk of many tribes, including a Thenn. All had come from the far north.

They spoke with the village elders for the evening and Karsi’s father returned with an ashen face. He would not speak of the council with her. She only received snippets from her brothers. The deserted villages. Screeches in the night. And blue eyes that shined cooler than any ice.

It delayed their excursion. In the end, Boren was able to convince her father to still let her come along. The tales were far away. But now there was more than a stealing that scared him.

Tiresias must have heard the answer in their silence. He sighed.

“The man certainly has a task ahead of him, that’s for sure. If all the tribes of the Free Folk have ever banded together before, it’s been a while. But he’ll do it. Your numbers will be great…but you will not be safe from what hunts you.”

“You don’t know our numbers,” Macha stated, her voice low.

Tiresias shrugged. “One hundred thousand? At least. Maybe ten or twenty thousand more?”

Karsi heard Macha tightening her grip on her spear. Based on the way the strange man smiled, he did too.

“One hundred thousand. It’ll serve the Night King well. To have you all together. To kill you all at once…”

Tiresias spread his hands on the ground and began to raise them slowly.

“And raise you up, bringing you and everyone you know under his command."

He kept his arms raised as he continued to speak.

"You’ll have no fear, you'll know no weariness, you’ll be strong...and you’ll belong to him.”

“The Free Folk belong to no one,” growled Boren. “We do not kneel.”

“Of course not,” said Tiresias softly, lowering his hands. “But you do die. And when you do, you'll submit yourself to his will. Valar morghulis. All men must die. Valar dohaeris. All men must serve.”

His eyes were on the fire again and Karsi felt herself following his gaze to the dancing flames. A small anguish weighed in her chest. It grew heavier and heavier…

“However,” said Tiresias. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

Her eyes snapped back to him. She could sense her people’s rapt attention.

“I have a gift for you,” said Tiresias. He reached behind him and pulled out a tied bag. He held it out.

Nobody leaned forward to take it. Tiresias sighed.

“I’ve been carrying this all over the damn forest. Somebody needs to take it.”

More to prove something to Boren than anything, Karsi leaned forward and grabbed the bag from the soothsayer, meeting his eye.

“Be careful,” said Tiresias, massaging his hand. “The items in there are quite sharp.”

She hesitated, then proceeded to untie the knot. At first, she couldn’t make out what was in the bag. It gleamed like dark ice. She reached in carefully and pulled out a spearhead, unlike any she’d seen before. Holding it in front of the fire, she saw violet and blue through it. It felt brittle.

Boren took the bag from her and reached in himself. He held out an arrowhead, also made of the dark material.

“That’s obsidian,” said Tiresias softly, just over the crackle of the flames. “Dragonglass. Some stories say it’s fire frozen, captured underground.”

It was difficult, but Karsi turned her eyes from the dragonglass to Tiresias.

“The creatures that you will fight have few weaknesses. Normal steel and weaponry will not fell them.”

He reached behind him and pulled out a dagger that Karsi did not see before. They stared, forgetting to tense up. The blade was dragonglass, with a strong handle.

“But these will. As you don’t have Valyrian steel beyond the Wall, this will be your only hope against them. Fire can stop the wights, the creatures they enslave from your fallen dead. But the White Walkers themselves…they don’t mind fire. They’re too cold for it. Only dragonglass will stop them.”

It took a while for Karsi to notice that Tiresias wasn’t smiling anymore. The flames didn’t even seem to reflect in his eyes any more. He put away his dragonglass dagger and rested his hands on his knees.

Boren placed the arrowhead back in the bag and passed it to Collum and Macha, who foraged through it themselves.

“Yeh say this is the only way to defeat the White Walkers,” said Boren, his eyes narrowing. “So why are yeh giving it away?”

“That’s not the only dragonglass we have,” said Tiresias. “Far from it. There’s a mountain of it south of the Wall. Well, actually a cave. In any case, by the time they arrive, we’ll have enough to arm every soldier in the North, every crow on the Wall and more.”

He shrugged.

“That’s the hope, at least.”

“Why are you giving this to us?” muttered Boren, his patience leaving him. “Yeh no Free Folk. Why do yeh care?”

“Because I’ve seen the Free Folk eradicated.”

Tiresias eyed Boren for a bit before turning his gaze again to Karsi.

“I’ve seen your eyes turn blue.”

The hairs on her neck raised so much, they hurt.

“I’ve already seen the Free Folk die and rise again as monsters. A sea of blue eyes and cold. It’s a force that no one can withstand.

“Some of your people might march north to fight them. Don’t. Mance has something of the right idea. Get close to the Wall. Try and get south if you can. Make peace with the Night’s Watch.”

Collum started laughing and Macha and Boren looked tempted to join him.

“Yeh want us to make peace with the crows?” said Boren, snorting. “Make peace with the ones who hunt us? And peck at us from their tall ice Wall? For a thousand years, they’ve been our enemies.”

“We can only make peace with our enemies, Boren.” Tiresia’s small smile was back. “That’s why it’s called making peace.”

Boren opened his mouth, but there was a noise above them.

“_Caw! Caw! Caw, caw!_”

Karsi jumped and stared upwards. The light of the fire reached just high enough to the low branches of the surrounding trees. A raven sat still. Strangely still, its dark eyes focused on them.

_No…not on us, _realized Karsi as she followed the crow’s gaze to Tiresias.

Tiresias returned the crow’s gaze as easily as he had any of theirs. He nodded and returned to the fire.

“Apologies. Probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Shouldn’t have said what?” asked Macha.

Tiresias glanced back up at the crow. “The words of a dead man.”

The mad man and the crow stared at each other for a brief time. With one final caw, the crow opened his wings and flew. Tiresias followed the bird as it disappeared into the darkness.

“I spent three weeks wandering these woods,” he murmured, still staring after the departed crow. “Three nights ago, I heard him cry above me. Right here. And I knew to wait. That the ones to whom I was meant to leave these weapons would come here.”

“Yeh took all this from a bird?” scoffed Collum, though Karsi sensed unease beginning to creep in his voice.

Tiresias turned to Collum, his eyes unblinking.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” He turned to Karsi. “You’re here.”

She couldn’t respond to that. None of them could.

Tiresias stood up and stretched, throwing his arms up high. Karsi remained seated, as did the others. Not even Boren raised his axes.

Picking his fur jacket up from the ground, Tiresias smiled at them.

“I’m so happy that I met you all, but as the crow is now gone, I must be as well,” he said, pulling on his jacket. He didn’t even bother to button it. He shouldered his rucksack and slung the bow across his back.

If they decided to attack and take this fucker for whatever he was worth, this was this last chance. She looked to Boren, awaiting his instruction but he said nothing. His mouth was slightly open. And she knew.

“Please use this fire tonight if you so choose,” said Tiresias. “The wood I gathered is right there. It’s enough for a couple of nights.”

He gestured at the rabbit skins. “Feel free to take the rabbit skins as well. If you want or can. I’m certain I’ve ruined them.” He shrugged. “Not one of my skills.”

“Yeh leaving right now?” Karsi asked.

The bewilderment in her tone was lost on Tiresias.

“Aye…is that a problem?”

“It’s night.” His eyes continued to bore into her, prompting her to explain the obvious. “Yeh don’t travel at night.”

Tiresias smiled grimly.

“They do,” he said. “And I’m sure if they’ll come by, it’ll be toward an open campfire.”

“They’re up north,” said Macha. She couldn’t keep a tremble from her voice. “That’s what Mance said.”

“The gatherings for their army, I’m sure,” said Tiresias, as he slung his quiver over his left side. “But a White Walker has definitely ventured south already, several times over.”

“How far south?” asked Boren. He forgot to keep the fear out of his voice.

“As far as Craster’s keep,” Tiresias replied. “At least.”

Even the stream seemed to fall silent. The tribes of the Frozen Shore, as did others, forbade any dealings with Craster, the crow-friendly, daughter-fucking waste of flesh. Boren only encountered him once. He refused to speak of it, but Karsi learned later that he had to be restrained from killing the man.

Boren’s eyes had turned to stone. That memory was there.

“Does Craster have dealings with them?” he asked, a quiet snarl in his words.

Tiresias exhaled through his nose. “Not anymore.”

Karsi's eyes travelled to the dagger by the man’s side.

_Did he…did he really…?_

She wasn’t given a moment to finish her thought, as Tiresias walked to the edge of the firelight, before turning back.

“Treasure your babes. Treasure that dragonglass. They won’t expect it.”

She felt the other three exchange looks, but she didn’t take her eyes off Tiresias, who sighed.

“And please forgive me if I, at any point during this conversation, sounded strange or insane. I have spent four weeks alone, in these woods and it’s…well, it’s not good for one’s mind.”

He stood still for a bit, before laughing softly.

“I’m so glad I met you all tonight and you Karsi...”

She stiffened as everything faded into the night. Her brother’s strength, Macha’s composure, Collum’s mockery. All of it escaped them as they watched this quiet mad man on the edge of the light. Tiresias smiled, his teeth shining bright in the darkness. They were the straightest, whitest teeth that Karsi had ever seen…

The sight of them smiling disturbed her as much as anything the man had said to them this evening.

“I do hope I see you again. And that when I do, you will be as you were in the story.”

He turned to leave, but paused and looked to her again.

“But without the blue eyes. I really hope that I never see those shining from you again. They don’t become you. Or any of you, for that matter.”

Without another word, he exited the safety of the campfire, stepping over the stream. Karsi saw his slim form slip into the darkness. She tried to listen for his footsteps, but they seemed to vanished when he did. Whatever else this mad man was, he was certainly light on his feet.

Sound returned to her ears as they looked to each other. Trying to making sense of what just happened. The trickle of the stream. The low hum of the wind above them. The hoot of an owl.

_He sure as fuck didn’t deafen us…but it felt like it._

Collum looked toward the direction in which Tiresias disappeared, then back to Boren.

“I take it we’re letting him go?”

Boren glanced to him. “Yeh want to spend more time with that fucking loon? Anyways, how much of a chase can yeh give? With ye gimp leg?”

“It’s no gimp leg, ye fucker. It’s just pained. It’s no excuse for letting that loon go. He had good steel. Yeh saw it.” He kicked the bag of dragonglass. “Better than this fucking shite.”

Karsi raised her eyes in time to seeing Macha whacking Collum on his shoulder.

“Don’t damage it!”

Collum was too dumb to see the danger in her tone.

“Damage it? What?” He rummaged through the bag, pulling out an arrowhead. “Yeh really believe him? Some southerner brings some brittle shiny rock in our lands, tells us that it can down…”

He threw his arms about, refusing to say it out loud. Karsi didn’t begrudge him. Most of the Free Folk didn’t speak of the rumors to the north. Saying it just brought it closer. She had tensed every time the stranger just casually spewed their name.

“…the White Walkers,” said Boren, letting his axes drop completely for the first time and rubbing his forehead. “Gods, some man of the Free Folk yeh are.”

“It’s horseshit,” exclaimed Collum. “Did yeh heard him talk? What he said? This is a story? What story?”

“How he spoke was stranger,” murmured Macha. She picked up an arrowhead of dragonglass as well, seeing the fire through it. “But what he actually did say…it’s too much of what he couldn’t possibly know. Mance, the white demons in the north…”

She looked to Karsi.

“Your name.”

Boren and Collum looked to her as well.

“Aye, about that,” said Collum. He took a swig of his goat’s milk. “Where the fuck have yeh seen him before?”

“I haven’t,” she pushed out, through gritted teeth. “I don’t like ye voice right now, Collum.”

“Well I don’t like having me name known ‘cause of ye fuckup…”

“Collum, shut the fuck up,” said Boren very quietly, his eyes still on her. The camp grew still. All of them knew this tone. “Yeh the first one who gave a name away tonight and that was mine. Best not to forget ye own fuckups, aye?”

Collum didn’t respond. Boren turned to him.

“Aye, Collum?”

After clearing his throat, Collum nodded.

“Aye. Sorry, Boren.”

Boren turned to Karsi, the fierceness in his eyes melting into concern.

“Now, Karsi, I want yeh to think. Over ye years and all yeh seen and all those yeh have met. Don’t answer me right away. Just think. Have yeh ever, in ye whole life, seen that man before? Given him ye name?”

A few seconds passed. Karsi didn’t need them. She knew her answer before he even finished the question, but Boren needed the seconds of silence. And so she counted them before answering.

“I’ve never seen him before tonight. No chance to give him my name. No one like him has ever touched the Frozen Shore.”

She looked around to Collum and Macha.

“One of us would have heard of him.”

Boren took that in before nodding and leaning back, sighing.

“I think we should stay here tonight,” said Macha. “It’s too late to hike back and start another fire. We’ll go back for our supplies in the morn and start home then. It’s not that much in the light.”

She looked to Boren.

“What say you? Collum has the bad leg, but we need sleep too.”

Collum looked ready to tell her off, but thought better of it. He settled for the final swig of his sour milk.

“I agree,” said Boren. He stood, looking around. “Yeh three sleep. I’ll take the first watch.”

“Boren, no,” Karsi said. She stood too. “I’ll take it. With all he said…I can’t sleep right now.”

She glanced back to the darkness where Tiresias had disappeared, then back to see her brother’s nod. He gripped her shoulder.

“Wake me if yeh need me and don’t wait to do it,” he murmured. “Yeh hear me?”

Karsi nodded, patting her brother’s hand before moving to where the mad man once sat. She settled down, placing her spear next to her. The woodpile was within arm’s reach.

“I’ll keep the fire going. Keep it warm for yeh. Enough wood here to last all night.”

Boren donned his gloves and raised his hood, before lying down.

“Don’t raise it too high. Unlike that mad bastard, we don’t want anyone coming ‘round.”

With that, he rolled over, giving his back the fire. He never slept with hot flames near his face. Collum had already laid down on his back. His eyes were closed and he was near sleep. Karsi sighed. That sour goat’s milk will turn his snoring loud enough to draw unwanted guests. And that wasn’t even considering the flatulence.

Karsi turned to Macha, who hadn’t laid down yet. She held the arrowhead that Collum tossed to the dirt, turning it over. Finally she returned it to the bag and tied it up again. Only then did she laid down…her head away from Collum’s now snoring form.

A good while passed before Karsi pulled out the spearhead she had pulled from the bag. Checking to see that no one was approaching, she gazed at the dragonglass. It certainly didn’t feel strong. It was pretty though.

Was this really the weapon that would strike down the terrors that they had heard of? Could such a small thing really just do the trick? If not, it was worthless.

She was glad that they didn’t discuss whether or not to keep the dragonglass tonight. Collum didn’t want any extra weight. Macha believed the mad man. Boren didn’t want to, but he was leaning toward it.

She ran her finger along the edge carefully. It was sharp. For the first time since she had heard of the blue eyes in the dark, her heart became a little lighter…

Looking up, she looked around and cursed. Guards shouldn’t be entranced by pretty things. Not out here. She also saw that the fire was quite low and she quietly fed it with a few sticks, so that none of her companions would wake.

Afterwards she pocketed the spearhead. She had hoped for a new weapon when they had approached the mystery fire. Now she had one. Even if her three older companions decided to toss the bag into the stream, she would take the one spearhead along. She wanted some hope against them. Just some fighting chance.

Besides, she was happy with her mother’s eyes. She didn’t care to change them for the blue ones that this mad man, Tiresias, foresaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, guys! That's Chapter Seventeen! I thank you in advance for your patience as the extra two days of waiting before Chapter Eighteen.
> 
> For anyone who's curious, the song sung by Tiresias is "Stardust" by Hoagy Carmichael. Here is a link to the arrangement I had in mind when writing that scene.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lzUp234nWx8
> 
> Have a good week!


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Clark gripped the edge of the well, panting, before pulling himself over. He landed hard on the stone floor. The well was higher than he anticipated and he laid on his back in the darkness.

“Fuck,” he breathed quietly. More than a month beyond the Wall had taught him never to speak loudly when one is alone and in the dark. Who knew what lurked in the shadows?

However, the seconds passed, turning into a minute and his tumble into the Nightfort didn’t seem to bring any unwelcomed company. He was also lucky that he didn’t land on anything sharp on the floor. He should have checked before he launched himself over.

But impatience and hunger had plagued him since he started back south. He’d spent a whole day on the other side of the Wall, trying to find the hidden door that Sam and Gilly had used in the third season. The one that Sam had picked up in a book. He thought that he had found the same book in the Castle Black library, but the instructions were practically nonexistent. Only that there was a door. And that it was hidden.

Very well too, unsurprisingly.

About a half hour ago, Clark was seriously considering just climbing the fucking thing. It wasn’t rational, but he was getting desperate and weighing his options. Then as the sun set and stopped reflecting so brightly on the Wall, he noticed a ridge in the ice that seemed a little too neat.

That led to the tunnel and to him crawling out of the well with just a hint more grace than Sam did. Relief flooded through him as he caught his breath. He was south of the Wall. He was safe…relatively speaking.

A growling echoed in the small room and Clark gently massaged his stomach. He had some success hunting and trapping beyond the Wall, but it took time and energy and what he caught was usually just barely enough to make up for the strength lost.

He had lost weight on this excursion, no doubt about it.

Tired of laying down, he forced himself up into a sitting position, leaning against the stone well. Reaching into his rucksack, he pulled the last of his smoked venison. A stag from four nights ago had basically saved his life and provided him enough food to make it back. The supplies that he took from Craster’s were running low when he met Karsi and her people…

Chewing the meat slowly, he paused, just tasting it, before swallowing. Afterwards he only wanted to gorge the rest of it, but he knew he couldn’t. If he ate the rest, he might be forced to travel east to Castle Black to beg for rations. And that would raise a bunch of questions that he didn’t want to answer. He needed to get south quietly.

So, hating himself, he put the rest of the venison away and took stock of his surroundings. There was a little moonlight, which was more than enough for his eyes. The room was big, with a few firepits. Chains hung on the walls. Clark didn’t know enough about castles or forts to guess which room this was, despite having lived in Winterfell.

A part of him thought he should explore the rest of the castle and find the best room to hide and rest in. However, he remained seated. If Meera and Jojen Reed decided on this room for their night in the Nightfort, then it was good enough for him too.

Trying to ignore the fact that they were a group and had direwolves protecting them as well, Clark removed his rucksack and sighed, massaging his shoulders. He was relieved to be indoors again. Even if it was in the Nightfort, the oldest castle on the Wall, a cursed place, a ruined collection of stones and horrors…

Most of the stories he knew about this place he had read in the Winterfell library. He didn’t remember them from his old world. The deserters buried alive in the Wall…the ranger, ‘Mad Axe’, who killed several of his black brothers…Danny Flint…

The one story that he did remember made him shudder as he gazed upon the chains, the moonlight glinting off them. Of the Rat King and the gods that cursed him so. Clark may not have believed in the Christian God back in Maine, but he did believe in the ones here. All except for the Seven actually made their presence known in the show.

This belief bled into his actions beyond the Wall. He approached Craster’s Keep with his bow out and down. An arrow rested, waiting to be nocked. The darkness of the Nightfort vanished before him as the firelight from within Craster’s grew greater…

_There were a few of the wives about as Clark approached the Keep. They all stopped and stared at him, at his bow. He scanned them, but none carried a weapon. The younger ones glanced back at the house, fearful of Craster’s reaction. The older wives just stared blankly at him. Not fearful, not perplexed. They just waited for their man to come out and deal with this stranger. Living with Craster must be a deadening experience._

_He scanned as well for a young Gilly, but couldn’t find her. That was a small relief. He didn’t want her to see this ._

_Eventually one of the older wives whispered to a younger one, who ran into the keep. All outside just waited. No one said a word._

_His ears perked up at a muffled raised voice. Male, a little drunk and very familiar. A voice he really didn’t want to have to hear in the flesh…_

_A cup was thrown across the room, followed by footsteps._ _The door banged open and Craster stumbled through, a small axe in his hand. He narrowed in on Clark quickly though, focus flooding quickly back into his beady eyes._

_“Yeh no crow,” he called._

_Clark fought a smile. He looked exactly the same._

_Craster spat on the ground. “If yeh be looking for shelter tonight, yeh won’t fucking find it here. This is my home. My keep. My wives. My stores. They’re not for the likes of bastard southerners such as ye. Now piss off ‘fore I cut yeh down for pigfeed.”_

_The snow fell lightly. Clark felt a little tension leave his shoulders. No invitation met no guest rights. If the gods in this world hated those who killed their guests, he imagined they had similar feelings to guest who kill their hosts. He was free now to act, at least he hoped._

_He ran his eyes over the women again. Still no weapons._

_“Take ye fucking eyes off my wives and daughters,” Craster snarled. Clark snapped back to him. The axe was raised, pointed straight at him. “Get off my land.”_

_“How many sons do you have?”_

_A tremor rippled through the women, while Craster froze, his beady eyes boring into his. Clark blinked freely, trying to keep his fear down, his arm relaxed…_

_“Have you even kept count?” he prodded._

_Craster’s frozen stare morphed slowly into a smile of sickening satisfaction._

_“I have many sons,” he said, his voice low and prideful. “My loins are strong. More so than most younger men. The men today are weak. They’re not even men.”_

_He raised his arms._

_“Why else do you think I keep a swarm of wives? One cunt alone wouldn’t cut it. I’m a true man.”_

_Clark sighed. _ _“So you don’t know how many boys you’ve given to the White Walkers?”_

_Craster dropped his smile quickly, but the snarl didn’t return. Instead there was a calm look on his face that…well, could only be described as reverent._

_“I’m a godly man, stranger. I give all I have to the old gods. My sons…they’re strong now. And I’m their sire.”_

_He began to laugh._

_“I’m the father of gods.”_

_Clark raised his bow and shot immediately. The arrow hit right below the heart and Craster fell, wheezing._

_Screams came from a few younger girls, but they were quickly stifled by the elders. Nobody moved. Not to attack Clark with his bow still outstretched. Not to aid Craster still writhing on the ground._

_Clark lowered his bow and walked forward. As he came over Craster, the old man locked eyes with him. Judging by the wheezes, he guessed that his lung was collapsing. That didn’t stop him from swinging his axe upward._

_Not too strongly though. Clark stepped on his arm and brought his axe to the ground. He then drew his dagger and placed it over the jugular. Craster coughed up some blood._

_“Sin against…” he wheezed. “My sons…they’ll—"_

_Clark pressed the blade in and withdrew quickly, silencing him. He stood up, careful to avoid the axe for any last desperate attempt from Craster. However, that didn’t happen. The man gurgled, blood coursing onto the snow and soon, he was still._

_Silence permeated the yard. Clark stepped forward and wiped his blade clean on Craster’s shirt. He then withdrew the arrow and wiped it too, before placing it back in his quiver._

_Finally, after avoiding it as long as he possibly could, he looked up, meeting the eyes of the wives._

_There was fear in a few of them, but most just continued to stare at him with blank eyes. Clark stood still, not quite sure how to proceed from here. Finally an older wife stepped from the ranks and walked over. She stopped at Craster’s corpse, staring down at him. Clark saw a single tear run down her cheek._

_She turned to face him, the strain of the tear shining in the moonlight. Despite that, she was quite composed. Clark forced himself not to look away. He cleared his throat._

_“Will you and the others allow me to walk out of here?” he asked, he hoped calmly. “I’ve no quarrel with you.”_

_The moonlight reflected in her left eye as well. Her right eye was milk-white, blinded. There was a massive bruise just below._

_“Are you here to claim wives from us?” she asked._

_Clark took that question in, before shaking his head._

_“No.” He looked around, before coming back to the woman. “Not meaning to offend.”_

_She nodded slowly, turned to Craster and spat. It landed square between his open eyes. She turned back to Clark._

_“Then we have no quarrel with you.”_

_Murmurs broke out amongst the women. Most agreed with the sentiment. Others didn’t._

_“He killed our protector!”_

_“Craster was no protector!” the elder woman shouted. Her eye was ablaze with a fury that Clark had never seen in anyone. Nothing but the worse in life was responsible for such a fury._

_“He kept the old gods at bay,” the young woman moaned. “What will we do when they come? Should Eva have a boy? They’ll come to claim him!”_

_The fury in the woman’s eyes faded enough to allow fear. The realization spread around the group, with the murmurs growing louder and louder._

_“You’ll need to leave,” said Clark. His voice carried through the yard and the murmurs ceased. “Take what you can and get close to the Wall. Settle so that if the North realizes the dangers beyond the Wall and opens the gates for refugees, you’ll be there.”_

_“You’re no southerner, ain’t you?” said the woman. She stepped closer to him. “The crows will never open the gates for us. Not for any Free Folk.”_

_“I’m working on that,” said Clark, forcing himself to breathe steadily. “Winterfell knows of the White Walkers and knows that the Free Folk must come south. It’s just…it’s just the idiocy of men that we need to deal with first.”_

_He gestured to Craster on the ground, trying not to flinch._

_“I’m sure you have experience with that.”_

_The blood was growing cold on his right hand…but he didn’t feel cold so what was that tingling through him?_

_The woman sighed, her eyes on her dead husband. “If we wait for men’s idiocy to fade, we’ll die long before we cross.”_

_Clark flexed his fingers. “It’ll take time, but there’s a chance. In the meantime, you and the others…you could live elsewhere while you wait. If you could survive him, you could survive anything.”_

_The woman continued to gaze down at Craster. “We won’t survive when they come for the next boy. They’ll find us even if we leave. They walk out of the cold. And the cold is everywhere.”_

_Clark dropped his bow and took a knee, opening the tied sack. He withdrew a dark dagger._

_“This will stop them,” he said, standing up and offering the dagger hilt first. The woman peered at the weapon, and then to him. Her gaze was piercing._

_“It’s dragonglass. Stab them with this and they turn to ice. The Children of the Forest used to wield such weapons.”_

_Nobody moved. The woman continued to stare at him. Clark refused to blink._

_“Take it. When they come for the babe, use it.”_

_Her eyes dropped to the dragonglass. Finally she reached out and took it, running her finger lightly along the edge. She turned to the others._

_“Prepare a pyre.” She pointed to Craster. “He needs to burn tonight. We’ll sleep here after. In the morn, we leave and we burn the rest.”_

_A few left immediately to find material for the pyre. The rest trickled out slowly with wide eyes, not quite believing their new lot. They were Craster’s wives ten minutes ago and now they were widowed._

_Some approached the corpse, mostly the young, to see that he was truly gone. A couple also spat on him, kicked him, taking what little vengeance they could. Eventually they all left._

_Clark followed the older woman as she ventured back to the house. She turned to him, her single eye questioning him._

_“I don’t know if I should ask this,” he said. “But my supplies are low and I have another task in these parts before I can leave. Can I have some food please? Whatever you and your…whatever you all can’t carry.”_

_She stared at him before walking away. Reading a rejection, he stayed behind, but she turned and gestured for him to follow._

_He was led to the stores where she handed him black bread and cured meat._

_“Thank you,” he said, placing it in the rucksack._

_The old woman bowed her head._

_“Two and sixty,” she said quietly_

_He paused in the middle of tying the rucksack shut._

_“What?”_

_“Craster has sixty-two sons. Every one, he gave to them.”_

_She walked to the door, then hesitated. Bracing herself against the frame, she let the silence linger, before answering Clark’s unasked question._

_“Craster stole me,” she spoke, facing away from him. “I’m not his daughter. I gave him his first son. There were sixty-two of them. I heard their cries disappear in the wood.”_

_The wind carried into the house, but the woman didn’t shiver. She seemed as unaffected by the cold as he was._

_“I was here for the first wedding too.”_

_Clark tried to think of something he could say that didn’t sound patronizing or stupid. He couldn’t, however the woman didn’t seem to expect him to. She walked away and Clark, sensing the dismissal, walked back to the front of the house. He paused to grab a skin. Smelling the wine inside, he slung it over his shoulder with the bow._

_Exiting, he passed Craster’s corpse. Sticks covered him and the first flames were starting to spread. He didn’t stop to watch the show. He wasn’t ready to learn what burning flesh smells like. The keep sank deep behind him, the firelight growing weaker and weaker…_

He blinked to see the glint of the moonlit chains. It took him a second to recognize the Nightfort. He set his head back and yawned. He needed to sleep and he was as safe here as any other night beyond the Wall.

After a final sip of his water, he stretched out, using his rucksack as a pillow. His final thoughts before resting were of Gilly. Perhaps the reason he was eager to leave was that he didn’t wish to see her, knowing that he eliminated the possibility that Little Sam would ever be born into this world.

He didn’t regret killing Craster and certainly didn’t have second thoughts about sparing Gilly from the incestuous rape that led to the pregnancy. She could have other children. And she wouldn’t miss a child that she would never birth.

Still, he couldn’t help but see Little Sam’s smile as he grew bigger. And it made him sad and slightly worried. How many of the younger Westerosi in this world wouldn’t be conceived and born because of his actions?

He didn’t have the energy to ponder the question further and he fell asleep quite easily in the haunted castle.

* * *

The Gift was a beautiful place. He wished he had more time and resources to explore it but he had to keep moving. He had spent more time beyond the Wall than he intended. Although as he thought about it, he supposed he was very lucky that he found the Free Folk as quickly as he did. In just a few weeks and Karsi among them too…

_No, _he told himself. _That wasn’t luck. That raven’s presence was proof enough of that._

He came upon the Kingsroad after two days. Sparing the north a weary glance, he began to trudge south for Winterfell. Not that he expected to see Castle Black from where he started, but he was still anxious. This little trek beyond the Wall was not something he wanted the Night’s Watch to be aware of.

_Then again, should they start talking with the Free Folk, it might come back to them. Probably shouldn’t have told them my name._

Tiresias kicked a stone away and continued to march.

_My name…not ‘my new name’ or ‘my chosen name’. Just my name…huh…_

That quiet realization disturbed him a little, but he tried to put it out of his head as he continued to walk. He was grateful that he wasn’t being jostled by the wagon anymore, but that meant the walk was longer and much more tiring. And having started on the Kingsroad on an unknown spot, he had no idea how much farther there was to go until Winterfell.

In a few days though, he came across a familiar sight, where the Last River intersected with the Kingsroad. He was tempted to stay the night here, though he still had a few hours of daylight left to hike. It would feel good to camp in a familiar place.

As he explored the area where they had camped weeks prior, he noticed something though. If the Stark entourage had already marched back and continued onto Winterfell, there would be signs of a recent camp. They wouldn’t just bypass it. This location was too convenient for resting and watering the horses.

But all the signs of a large company camping were too old. The impromptu firepits, the faded indents of the wagons with hoof-prints, no clean bark where small branches were broken off the trees for firewood. All the signs of the Winterfell retinue were from the trek up north, the trek that he had accompanied.

Which meant that the Stark entourage hadn’t come this way yet. And that meant that if he turned on the road to Last Hearth, he would meet up with them…supposedly.

Clark sat down on the riverbed, thinking it though. He could have just pulled all of this straight from his ass. Why would Ned Stark not be in Winterfell yet? Enough time had passed. What else would he have been doing? Also, even if he was in Last Hearth, what was the benefit in delaying his return to Winterfell?

By the time he made up his mind and stood, he had nothing but flimsy excuses; he wanted to see Last Hearth, wanted to see the Umbers, wanted to take the chance that he would be reunited with the Winterfell men, whom he actually missed beyond the Wall.

With flimsy excuses and all, he turned east and began to follow the river. At the end of it all, the Last Hearth was only a short distance away. It would be worth the trip. And if he arrived and Ned Stark was long gone, he would look like an idiot. But at least he could maybe pick up some supplies. He was tired of hunting every night.

* * *

In a sharp contrast to the abandoned, frozen castle that had fallen to the Night King, the Last Hearth that Clark approached was boisterous and peppered with many a light, from the torches on the walls to the open flames where he could hear the drunken singing even from a distance. It encouraged him, but he didn’t quicken his step. He was too tired for that.

No one spared him a second glance as he stepped through the gate. Or so he thought. He smelled the guard before he put his hand on his shoulder.

“Who are yeh? And what business do yeh have here?”

Clark turned to a breastplate that was at his eye level. He looked up to meet the guard’s eye and opened his mouth when…

“Tiresias! Is that you?”

Clark didn’t turn back around entirely as he didn’t want to upset the guard. However he did manage to catch a glimpse of Gord before the big man slapped him on the back.

“You made it, man! Finally!” exclaimed Gord, before he turned to the guard. “It’s all right, Harmond. He’s one of us,” he said politely.

That earned Clark a dubious stare from Harmond.

“Not built like one of you, that’s for sure,” the Umber guard said.

“Nor like you, thank the Gods for that,” said Gord, as he guided Clark further into the castle. They entered the inner courtyard and headed straight for the huge kegs.

“There we are,” said Gord, finding an extra mug and filling it, before passing it to Clark. “Cheers, mate, cheers. Glad to finally feast with you on this journey!”

“A feast?”

“Aye, we’ll be packing up and headed back to Winterfell in the morn. If all else, you’ve great timing.”

Relief flooded Clark as he leaned against the keg and he followed that relief with ale, tilting his mug after clinking with it with Gord's.

The giant guard wiped his mouth and stared at him. “Gods, did you forget to eat in Castle Black?”

"No...why?”

“I swear you lost a stone since last I saw you. The Night's Watch's food really that shite?"

Clark shrugged. "Nah...just forgot to eat sometimes."

Gord nodded. "It happens sometimes. You know, I’ve seen some librarians so lost in their books, their stories, they forget themselves. Starve to death.”

“Horseshit.” Clark placed down his empty mug. “You don’t know any other librarians.”

Gord shrugged. “Aye, true.”

“I am hungry though,” said Clark, pushing off from the keg. “And I do need to speak with Lord Stark. Where is he?”

Gord pointed to what appeared to be the main hall and Clark followed. It seemed to be the popular place for the evening. He shuffled along the corridors, amongst men who towered over the average height. They ignored him entirely.

He entered the Great Hall and spotted Ned at once. He was the guest of honor, seated next to a huge man that Clark hadn’t seen since the Greyjoy Rebellion. The Greatjon was laughing and dragging a smile out of Ned Stark, prompting cheers from the men. Clark fortified himself and walked past the food. He had to see Lord Stark first.

He paused in front of the high table.

“Lord Stark,” he called over the noise. The Lord of Winterfell paused and stared at him.

“Tiresias?” He buried his surprise before inclining his head. “You’ve arrived.”

“Aye, just now.”

“And the Castle Black library?”

“A complete success, my lord. I do thank you for allowing me to leave your company and stay there for further study. I do have some matters to discuss with you, but they can wait for another time.”

“Of course, Tiresias,” said Ned, fully in control. He turned to his host. “Lord Umber, this is Tiresias, our librarian at Winterfell.”

“Tiresias, eh?” said the Greatjon, eyeing the man.

“Good evening, Lord Umber,” Tiresias said. “Forgive me for intruding. I was merely catching up to Lord Stark.”

“Fuck off with all that,” called the Greatjon. "If you’re with Lord Ned, you’re welcome here. And just in time for the farewell feast! Go on! Drink, man! Eat! And then drink again!”

Clark nodded. “Thank you, Lord Umber.” He turned to Ned. “Good to see you again, Lord Stark.”

He found an empty spot at the edge of the hall and sat, sighing in relief. It had been a long time since he had a seat for dinner. The next hour passed in a daze. There was a plate placed in front of him, a meat and potato pie with herbs and butter. He drank steadily through a second helping. Actual tears came to his eyes as he bit into a marionberry tart, at the sour pleasantness of the pastry.

He was just licking his fingers, well aware that he hadn’t washed them properly in a month when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a Winterfell guard over him, with a familiar face and very sober eyes.

“Lord Stark wishes to see you immediately,” he stated.

The guard’s name clicked, Theodore, one of Ned’s personal guards. An impressive fighter with bushy eyebrows. Clark nodded and stood, looking to the high table.

But the Lord of Winterfell wasn’t there.

“He’s in his guest chamber,” explained Theodore. “Follow me.”

Perhaps it helped that out of the many, many intoxicated people in the dining hall, he was still comparatively sober. Nevertheless, he found himself swaying slightly as he followed Theodore out of the Great Hall. The laughter faded into the background they walked to the guest chambers of the castle.

Clark blinked to find Theodore halted in front of a door and knocking.

“Enter,” called Ned from the inside.

He walked past the guard into the chamber. Ned Stark was seated by the fire. He stood waiting, wanting to curse himself. He shouldn’t have drunk that much. It wasn’t dignified and he was sure his attempts to stop his swaying were in vain.

“Thank you, Theodore,” said Ned. “That is all.”

The door closed and Ned gestured to the chair opposite. He crossed and sank in the cushion. If he thought the wooden bench in the Great Hall was heavenly, this was something else. He sighed, unable to hide his weariness. He looked to see Ned staring intently at him.

“Would you care for some wine?”

Clark shook his head and lifted his waterskin, draining the remnants of the Last River. As he wiped his mouth, he couldn’t resist another sigh.

“I’ve already drunk enough to make me miserable on the wagon tomorrow,” he said, smiling. “Best not make it completely unbearable.”

He leaned back into the chair.

“I’m a little surprised to see you here, Lord Stark. I’d thought you’d be home in Winterfell by now.”

“I delayed,” Ned responded. “It had been a long time since I’d been to Karhold. Lord Karstark hosted us for a week. We arrived here only a few days ago.”

“Was that for me?”

“Only slightly.”

They fell silent for a bit, hearing the crackle of a fire. A fire that he wasn’t responsible for, that he didn’t have to build or tend. The thought cheered him. He knew he didn’t need the warmth beyond the Wall. It was just a little more terrifying alone at night with no fire.

Ned Stark pulled out a letter, the one that he had passed to him on top of the Wall. It was still sealed.

“You didn’t read it?”

“It hasn’t been a year. You returned from beyond the Wall.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Yes,” Ned muttered immediately. “I didn’t expect you to…”

The Lord of Winterfell didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to.

“And yet you still allowed me to go,” mumbled Clark, sinking lower into the chair. “You assisted me in crossing. I appreciate that. I truly do. Thank you for your trust.”

Ned glanced at him. “You look like you barely ate up there.”

Clark shrugged. “Turns out, hunting’s a bit sparse in the true North. Especially if you’re a lone traveler. But I survived.”

“You don’t appear as though you merely sat in the Castle Black library all this time.”

“Well…I supposed I say that I was too engrossed in the materials and…forgot to eat.”

He thanked Gord internally for the covering lie. And it wasn’t a horrible lie. During Clark’s sophomore midterms in college, he studied so intensely that he forgot meals. It brought the wrath of his sister down on him when she found out.

With that memory, a dull sad pain weighed on his heart. He raised his eyes to see Lord Stark gripping the letter tightly.

“Do you wish for me to keep this?” Ned asked lowly.

Clark shook his head. “It wouldn’t do for others to see it. Besides it’s a sloppy letter. I wrote it far too quickly.”

Ned nodded and tossed it into the flames. The envelope curled as it turned black. They watched until it was completely consumed, with no chance to ever be seen by unwelcomed eyes.

"Do the men suspect anything?"

Lord Stark shook his head. "Hoenstly, no one mentioned you...except Ser Rodrik. He questioned your absence as we departed Castle Black. The first night as we camped along the Wall."

Clark sighed. "I suppose he would. How'd you answer him?"

"That you had further business at Castle Black," said Ned shortly. Clark smirked slightly. That kind of tone shut down any further inquiry. At least he hoped.

Ned scratched his beard. "What of your business beyond the Wall?"

“Craster’s dead” Clark stated bluntly. He felt Ned’s eyes go to him, but he kept watching the flames dance. “I shot him with an arrow and cut his throat. Saw his corpse. One of his wives…an older one. She says that he has given sixty-two sons to the Night King. Over the years.”

He turned back to Ned, only to see that his eyes to drawn to the fire as well.

“So that means that at least sixty-two White Walkers are beyond the Wall?”

Clark couldn’t suppress a yawn. “Probably. Wouldn’t surprise me though if the Night King has made others before Craster.”

Ned’s eyes seemed to dull at that point, not even reflecting the fire at all.

“Then are the wildlings already doomed?”

“A certain number of them, to be sure.” Clark scratched his knee. “I didn’t go beyond the Wall with any hope of preventing all deaths on behalf of the Free Folk. Just enough to make a difference when the time comes. I hope I succeeded.”

“Then your second objective went well?”

“I believe so. As well as it could.” He smiled slightly, not feeling cheerful though. “We do have an ally beyond the Wall. I can’t speak to him directly, but he guided me to some Free Folk and one had a familiar face.”

“Mance Rayder?”

Clark shook his head. “Nah, the man was farther north than me. A girl, almost a woman, who will grow to be fierce and strong. I gave her and her company the dragonglass and told them to use it wisely against the White Walkers.”

“All of it?”

“I gave a dagger to Craster’s wives. Also, one to your brother.” He turned to Ned and leaned forward. “The wives are marching to the Wall. To try and further themselves from the sons they gave. The dagger will catch the White Walker offguard the first time, perhaps the second. But they need to cross the Wall in order to truly be safe. All the Free Folk do. We can ship all the dragonglass beyond the Wall that we possibly can…but this isn’t a war that they can win, even with those weapons.”

A silence filled the chamber. Clark glanced to the door. He hoped he had kept his voice down. Theodore didn’t have to hear any of this.

“But I realize,” he said, standing up. “That it’s late, I’m tipsy, we’re tired, we’re not at Winterfell, and we have a long journey ahead of us in the morning. So I believe we should leave it for tonight.”

He turned to go, before stopping himself and turning back.

“With your leave, Lord Stark?”

Ned nodded and he continued to the door.

“Tiresias,” he said. Clark stopped with his hand on the door.

“Yes?”

“Those from Craster’s place? It’s only his wives, his daughters? No sons?”

Clark nodded. “Aye, that’s the gist of it.”

“I’ll write to Benjen. See if he can find them and bring them through. If they agree. If the Night’s Watch can be persuaded…”

He looked to Clark, who had come back to the fire, his hand resting on the chair.

“If the wildlings come through, we’ll need to start slow. It can’t be a full exodus. The wives of Craster…they aren’t rapers, they aren’t bandits. The Lord Commander might be willing…if they have employment waiting for them. Perhaps among the Northernmost houses. Those are the ones who will need to be persuaded that all not wildlings raid and pillage. The Mormonts maybe, the Forresters…”

“The Umbers?” suggested Clark.

Ned shook his head. “I don’t trust Lord Umber to protect the younger ones.” He turned back to Clark and sighed. “When we return to Winterfell, we’ll find a way.”

Clark waited, but Lord Stark seemed done for the night. He tapped the chair.

“I’m not sure I’m that optimistic, Lord Stark. But I appreciate that you are.”

“It’s my duty,” Ned said quietly. “I must believe I can find a solution. I must act as if I can.”

That got a humorless chuckle out of Clark.

“I did miss you, Lord Stark.” He crossed to the door, turning back as he gripped the door knob. “Good night.”

Theodore was still present, standing at his station. He didn’t respond in kind when Clark bid him good night too.

It took him a minute to realize that he was still carrying his rucksack. Also that he had no place to sleep tonight. After visiting the latrine and filling up his waterskin, he wormed his way through the last remaining revelers, finding a bench in the courtyard. He figured they couldn’t miss him here in the morning.

He stretched out, the hard surface of the bench more of a firm comfort than an ache. Here in Last Hearth, the sounds of the forest were dulled with songs and laughter. Here he couldn’t hear the river flow. Here, he was safer than he had been in weeks.

And yet for all that, he struggled to sleep, his senses alert for anything that could get him in the dark.

* * *

They arrived back at Winterfell to a far greater fanfare than they had left. Probably helped that it was late afternoon when they rolled into the courtyard as opposed to predawn. By the time Clark had entered on the wagon, Ned was receiving fierce hugs from Arya and Bran. Robb, Jon and Sansa tried to maintain some poise but it was futile. Their father had been gone for far too long.

Ned quickly disappeared with them into the castle, leaving the rest of the supplies to be handled by the servants. Clark stayed behind and lifted one end of his full trunk. He turned to ask Gord for assistance, but the giant guard was preoccupied. He'd seen Ginn across the yard and went to greet her. He wasn’t lying about her smile…

Grinning himself, he recruited another servant, Wull. They carried the trunk all the way to the library.

As Wull left, Maester Luwin came into the library, chains clinking. He shook Clark’s hand.

“Welcome back to Winterfell, Tiresias.”

“Thank you, Maester Luwin,” replied Clark, opening the trunk. “How has Winterfell fared these past couple of months?”

“Fair enough,” said Maester Luwin. He moved to the open trunk, running his hand along the tomes gently. “The Night’s Watch was very generous, I see.”

“Aye. Too generous in my opinion, but Maester Aemon insisted.”

“He’s a good man.”

Clark picked up a tome. “You know him?”

Luwin shrugged. “Only through the letters, but he writes kindly.”

“I see,” said Clark, looking from the trunk to Luwin. “I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t enter these into our records today. I’m very tired. But I will place them there for tomorrow’s work and return the trunk.”

“Of course, of course,” said Luwin, waving it away. “You must be exhausted. I have many duties as well with the returning entourage. Lord Stark will need my attention this evening.”

He nodded and the maester patted him on the shoulder.

“Rest tonight, Tiresias. You deserve it.”

Clark watched the old man leave.

_I sure goddamn hope so._

Before he could rest though, despite not wanting to do any more constructive tasks tonight, he knew he had to run errands in Wintertown before the shops closed for the night. He needed a new quill. Plus, he lost a couple of shirt buttons beyond the Wall.

He steeled himself and wandered down to the market place, exchanging greetings with the various shopkeepers. He was perusing a limited selection of buttons when he heard someone come up on his left. Someone whom he was told never to visit again.

“Tiresias?”

With a second’s hesitation, he turned to see Renei, with her basket. He nodded.

“Hello, Renei. How are you?”

She shrugged. “All right.”

The shopkeeper walked off, to tend to someone invisible at the other end of the stall. She may have serviced prostitutes, but she didn’t wish to be a part of their business.

“You just arrived back, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Aye, from the Wall, at Castle Black. Tended to some tomes there.”

“Library must be keeping you busy.” she said, with the faint hint of a smile. “You haven’t visited in months. Ambre’s annoyed at me. Think I scared off a steady customer.”

“I keep my word. You asked me not to call on you again.”

She shrugged. “Still leaves plenty of other girls. What? You catch feelings for me?”

He returned her gaze calmly. “Did you?”

Renei smiled and shook her head. “Nah,” she replied somewhat honestly. “Fond of you, sure. But nothing more.”

“Is that why you told me never to call again?”

“That’s part of it. But…mostly, it was the look in your eye. When you returned to the mill. And later at breakfast…it’s almost the same look you have now. Returning to Winterfell again.”

Mercifully, someone else approached the stall and the shopkeeper jumped to them. Understanding each other, Renei and Clark walked away down the street, turning into an alley. They paused and looked at each other.

“Did you find your mother’s stolen treasure at Castle Black, Tiresias?” she asked softly.

Clark shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

Renei sighed. “Even if you were speaking true…and the man was already dead when you arrived…you’re going to be around that, aren’t you?”

He didn’t confirm or deny it. However, Renei seemed to interpret his silence correctly.

“That thing is too much for me. I appreciate the coin I received. Maybe it will let me go home. Say Garrel Batler died. And start over again. If I could.”

“It’s not the worse idea.”

“Tiresias…” He looked at her. She looked like she was struggling to ask something. In the end, she decided against it. “You’re still welcome at Ambre’s. I didn’t mean to ban you entirely.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “Just haven’t felt like it. And not just because of you.”

The shadows were beginning to fall more quickly. If he wanted to complete his errands, he would have to move along.

“Good night, Renei.” He had to leave.

“How did you know?” she asked behind him. He turned to see that she gathered enough gumption to ask the question. “How did you know that I would keep to your alibi? Even after there was a murder?”

A silence fell between them, but Renei was prepared to wait it out. Clark sighed and conceded.

“If you went to the authorities, you would have to disclose the true nature of our relationship. Allow your family to discover what you’ve truly been doing in the North. I knew that. It's part of why I asked you to come with me.”

There was no surprise in her blue eyes, but there was still hurt. She hitched her basket and walked past, pausing right in front of him.

“You need a bath,” she said, before marching down the street. Clark watched her disappear. She didn’t look back.

Later, Clark sat in the hot springs, soaking in the heat. Renei spoke the truth. Having arrived the night before their departure at Last Hearth, he had no time to take a bath. The filth was not too noticeable out in the wild. But here in Winterfell, after not bathing since he left, his stink was obvious.

He emerged from the water with his skin scrubbed raw, wishing for coconut oil.

_Maybe they have coconuts in Naath…_

He would have stayed in there all night, if not for his stomach. It growled as he stood from the water and dried. It wasn’t a full feast when he walked into the Great Keep, but something was definitely thrown together for the return of Ned and company. He sat down across from Barth, always a delightful and silent dinner partner. The brewer nodded to him before returning to his dinner and that was his welcome home.

Not his only one though. Clark felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Welcome back, Tiresias.”

He turned to see Mal looking down at him, her brown eyes widening as he turned.

“Hello, Mal,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m well.” She blinked. “Did you not eat at all when you were gone?”

_Christ, is it that noticeable?_

He shrugged. “Probably not as much as I should have. Got lost in the pages. Forgot to eat sometimes.”

The dining room seemed a little warmer at the moment. Mal didn’t look amused.

“You shouldn’t forget things like that. It’s not healthy.”

“Well, it wasn’t on purpose.” Clark sighed. “Sorry…may I have something? I’m hungry now.”

After a beat, she nodded. “Aye, I’ll bring you something.”

She left. Clark turned back around to see Barth look back down to his plate. All of his face seem to be grinning except his mouth.

“What?”

Barth shrugged. Clark sighed.

“Aye, that’s all I get from you, right?” He rubbed his temple. “No wonder I like eating with you.”

The rest of dinner passed in a daze. Not quite the daze that he had experienced at Last Hearth, but it was still a little disorientating. Comforting, but disorientating.

It probably helped that he had actually eaten regularly over the past fortnight. And that he rode in the wagon, as opposed to walking all day…and that he hadn’t drunk as much tonight.

“Tiresias?”

He had sensed Jon Snow approaching him, but still allowed the boy to surprise him. He swallowed some ale and turned to see the young boy right behind him.

“You’re becoming more and more silent,” he said. “Still could use some work though. Arya puts you to shame.”

He couldn’t stop a grin from spreading on his face, which Jon returned. He clapped the young boy on the shoulder.

“It’s good to see you, Jon. Sit down.” He scooted over, making room. “Mal’s about to bring me a dessert. I’ll split it with you.”

Jon didn’t need the extra motivation, but he still sat.

“How are things here in Winterfell?”

The boy shrugged. “No different,” he said.

“No different?”

“Lessons, training, running about.”

Clark lowered his voice. “Is Theon treating you better?”

They both looked to the high table. Theon was sitting next to Robb, who was staring at Ned with serious attention. He wondered what tale of the Wall, Last Hearth or Karhold the Quiet Wolf was relaying. Theon stared at his plate, pretending not to listen but Clark could tell he was.

Jon shrugged. “He’s fine. Not nice…but better.”

Clark sighed. “Well, I suppose that’s progress.” Something caught his eye. “All right, here it is.”

Mal placed a baked apple in front of him.

“Thank you, Mal,” chorused Jon and Clark.

Mal smiled at Jon, before she shot a curious look at Clark. He barely had time to register it before she turned and walked away.

Clark shook his head and tried to ignore that Barth was giving him the same look as before. He divided the apple into two and gave Jon his fork.

“Here,” he said, pushing the plate toward him. “You first.”

“You sure?”

“Honestly, I don’t care for baked apples. You can even have it all if you want.”

Jon shook his head. “That’s all right.”

The young boy took a few bites as Clark nursed his ale. Finally Jon turned to him.

“You were at Castle Black all this time, right?”

“Aye, something like that.”

“What was it like?”

Clark heard the hidden question. Jon Snow wasn’t nearly as sneaky as he believed. He sighed to himself. He thought he had a few more years before Jon Snow would start considering the Night’s Watch. However, this was a foolish thought on his part. Robb was already learning his future duties of Warden of the North.

_Or perhaps King in the North…_

His teeth set at the unwelcomed thought. The point was that Jon was surrounded by reminders of his future all the time. Why wouldn’t he start planning for it?

“Tiresias?” Jon inquired and Clark realized he’d remained silent for too long.

He cleared his throat.

“It’s old,” he said. “It feels older than Winterfell, although it’s not. But the castle itself is in disrepair. Everything creaks and moans in the cold.”

He turned to Jon.

“Actually, it’s not entirely fair to call it a castle. It’s a fortress but not a particularly good one. It has little protection from the south. The library was quite good though. There are tomes there, Jon, that are older than the Andals. Some of them we brought back.”

Jon took a few more bites of the apple.

“And the Night’s Watch?”

Clark breathed through his nose.

“It’s long since lost the honorable reputation that it once held in the Seven Kingdoms,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, Jon. There are good men in the order. The Lord Commander’s one. Jeor Mormont could definitely bring something to the post. Your uncle, Benjen. I saw him.”

Jon’s eyes widened at the mention of Benjen.

“Also, Qhorin Halfhand and Maester Aemon are there as well…well, maybe not Qhorin most of the time. He ranges frequently. And there are hardworking, honorable men as well, but most…well, the vast majority of the men, Jon…”

He sighed and looked Jon in the eye.

“The North is pretty much the only kingdom which regards the Night’s Watch as an honorable vocation. The rest of the kingdoms view it as a penal colony. And they’ve treated it as such. They ship north criminals and bad men or just unfortunate souls who’ve come under bad luck and force them to take the black. Therefore, there’s numerous members of the Night’s Watch who aren’t honorable or good, and the cold does little to change that. It’s a dangerous place, Jon.”

Jon seemed to deflate before him. Clark placed a hand his shoulder.

“I’m not saying you can’t find honor there. Benjen is there and he’s doing important work beyond the Wall. I’m just saying that it’s not the clean and honorable place you may have in your head. So…I would wait on joining.”

Jon’s eyes widened again and he turned toward the high table, before coming back to Clark.

“Please don’t tell my father,” he whispered.

Clark pushed the rest of the apple to Jon.

“As long as you promise to wait until you’re a man before you go running off North.”

Jon nodded earnestly. Clark finished his ale.

“Now, Jon, I’m tired and I have quite a bit of work to do in the morning. Good night.”

He turned and exited the Great Hall. A few of the house guards gave their greetings and their welcome backs and he accepted them as the fog of sleep slowly crept through his head.

By the time he had made it to his room, he was yawning every few seconds. He stripped as he walked to the bed, leaving the clothes in crumpled piles on the floor.

Despite his exhaustion, he sat on the bed for a few minutes, not lying down just yet. His mind was on the whore from Gulltown again. Her death didn’t start to haunt him until he arrived back at Winterfell. What about Craster? For the past several weeks, he had traversed beyond the Wall and through the North without nary a shudder at the memory of his kill. Now that he had returned from another mission, another assassination, he wondered if he would see the cruel man tonight, blood flowing from his throat…

_Just like Littlefinger…I didn’t know that people sounded different when their throats were cut…Littlefinger’s muffled scream, Craster’s shivering gurgle…will I hear them all in my dreams tonight? Along with the creak of the hanging whore?_

He sighed and laid down, resigning himself to the risk. After all, there were only nightmares. The morning would save him in good time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's another chapter! Thank you for your response for the last one.
> 
> Next Tuesday is going to be a bit of a time jump, but not too severe. Until then, have a good week and stay safe!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Arya was not used to having time free from supervision. An hour spent without Septa Mordane, Maester Luwin, Father or Mother watching over her. But today was different. Mother was secluded to her bedroom and all attention was on her as she went into labor.

It had started early in the morning, when it was still dark. Arya woke up to Sansa knocking on her door and excitingly telling her to come and meet their new brother or sister. They quickly discovered that the babe hadn’t arrived yet and it may be some time before it did. After being told sternly to stay away from Mother’s room until they were called, they were released.

Despite Maester Luwin tending to Mother, lessons after breakfast were not cancelled, much to her displeasure. Tiresias instructed them this morning, as he often did when Maester Luwin had other duties. He was a good teacher, kind, with a voice different than any other person in Winterfell. But she just couldn’t keep still, her thoughts kept straying to Mother.

“Ayra?”

She started. It was the second time that she had been caught and she turned to see Tiresias’ hazel eyes boring into hers.

“You didn’t hear my question, did you?”

She braced herself for the harsh words that usually came from Septa Mordane. Instead Tiresias just sighed.

“Well, I can’t say I blame you. Are you worried about your mother?”

Arya nodded. Tiresias came over to her seat and knelt down, looking her in the eye.

“It’s all right. I know it’s scary, but your mother’s strong and she’s in great hands. Luwin is an excellent maester and your father is with her. Just like when you were born. And Bran.”

“And me, Tiresias,” said Sansa.

Tiresias nodded. “Of course, Lady Sansa. You as well. The bells rang for all your arrivals. Now, either today or tomorrow, the bells will ring again and you’ll have a new member of your wolfpack.”

He stood up, walking back to his books on the main table. He closed them and stood in front, turning to face them.

“Now, because of that,” he called back. “I understand that you’re all distracted. So I’ll make you a deal. No books today and I’ll let you go early. However for the next hour, I want you to talk me about your new brother.”

He fetched a half-hour glass from the desk before walking back and placing it on the table.

“For the first half-hour,” he said, before switching to Valyrian. _“We speak Valyrian, and for the second…”_

He then switched to the Old Tongue.

_“We speak in the tongue of your forefathers.”_

“But Tiresias,” said Sansa, but Tiresias raised his eyebrows and she paused before continuing. _“Tiresias, how do you know it’s a boy?_”

Arya had that question as well, as did all most of her other siblings it seemed. Jon and Robb had fixed the librarian with their own questioning gazes. Bran was too busy with his drawings. Tiresias only raised his hands in surrender.

“_I don’t,” _he said. _“I only dreamt it.”_

There was a slight smile on his face and it remained there for the rest of the lesson. Arya couldn’t stop looking back to it. She recognized that smile. It was on the librarian’s face as far back as she could remember…

Tiresias was always in Winterfell, according to her. Jon told her about the first time that he had walked into the Great Hall with Father. A stranger who sat with them and stayed for what had now been three years, bringing more and more tomes to the library tower.

But as she grew she learned strange things about him. About how he sparred with Jon, though she’d never seen him armed. The sword, the spear, the bow; these came out at night. Although Jon said he carried a dagger with him, tucked away. He also said her that Tiresias told him to train her, that he was responsible for their bouts in the godswood.

A librarian doesn’t train like that. She wondered if Maester Luwin also trained, if the old man could wield a sword like Ser Rodrik. She asked Father a few moons ago and he laughed.

“As far as I know, Maester Luwin is only a maester and believe me, that’s enough training for one man.”

When she inquired about Tiresias, Father only shrugged.

“What Tiresias does in his spare time is not my concern. So long as he does his duty and conducts himself with honor. Besides, he’s Essosi. They’re not quite as strict. Tiresias can be both a man of letters and a man of arms. Though I think he prefers not to draw attention to that.”

Maybe that’s why he told Jon to train her. Why he doesn’t sneer at her bastard brother. Why he doesn't insist on her being a lady…

_Only two months ago, she had snuck out to the training yard, away from a lesson from Septa Mordane. She couldn’t reach the swords stacked high along the sides of the yard. So she wandered over to the archery range. A bow laid there, too small for a grown man. Bran had forgotten to put away his training weapon…_

_She looked but no one was present. Not knowing how much time she had before the range was occupied, she ran to the target and took out the five arrows stuck there. She had to reach high for the last one._

_Having gathered all the arrows she could, she ran back to the discarded bow and picked it up. It was a little big for her, but she could hold it steady. She nocked an arrow as she had seen Robb once do. Her entire arm was shaking as she drew back and released._

_The arrow went halfway to the target before falling to the ground._

_The second arrow fell just short of the target. The third flew behind._

_She had no idea how much time had passed. All she knew was that she ran to collect her five grounded arrows three times. The third time she stalked back to the line, she was breathing hard, frustrated, and close to tears. She closed her eyes and breathed as Jon had taught her._

_Breathe in on one...two...three...and hold for one...two...three...and release on one...two...three…_

_Head calm and fingers still, she nocked an arrow and released. Still a miss. She let out a breath and nocked again._

_Something was different. She could feel it as she let go. The arrow flew from her bow, singing in the air before it stuck in the target. Not the center, not even close…but still it stuck._

_Smiling she was about to cheer when she heard something above her._

_Clap, clap, clap._

_She whirled around and looked up to the balcony. Father was there and Tiresias as well. She had no idea how long they had been watching her, but they were at the railing, both applauding, not saying a word. Father with his quiet pride. Tiresias with that slight smile…_

_A smile came over her face too and a torrent of emotions welled up inside her. Relief that she wasn’t being punished for abandoning her lessons with the Septa or for shooting arrows like a boy. Pride and joy for sticking the arrow her first time holding the bow. The previous arrows that grounded didn’t exist in her mind. The one stuck arrow counted beyond measure._

_Tiresias muttered something to Father before wandering off, nodding to her as he did. Father looked back to her and told her to keep practicing until dinner. She nodded quickly and picked up the next arrow. He stayed on the balcony and watched the rest of her exercise._

_That was two weeks before her fifth nameday. Which was very exciting, except she still had to go to lessons. She had a harder time concentrating than usual, even her numbers didn’t come as easily as they usually did. Finally when Maester Luwin dismissed them, she cleaned her slate as quickly as possible before turning to run out._

_“Arya?” called Tiresias from his table. “Could you come here for a minute?”_

_Arya slightly pouted. She didn’t want to stay in the library anymore for her nameday. But Father and Mother told her to respect the adults. Not to mention that Tiresias was never mean to her._

_So she dragged herself to his table. He was surrounded by stacked tomes and littered parchments filled with his neat, tiny writing. As she arrived, he dug through one of the stacks and pulled out a thin tome, presenting it to her._

_“Happy nameday, Arya.”_

_She took the book curiously, eyeing the title; SheBears and Their Spears. Opening the book, she saw a single drawing. A bear was growling at her viciously._

_“Stories from the women of House Mormont,” said Tiresias. She looked back up at him. “You’re old enough to start reading it yourself. That tome doesn’t belong to the library though. It will stay with you, should you wish to keep it.”_

_Her shelf in her room had no books like these. Stories came from Mother, Father and Old Nan. This was hers to read by candlelight. In secret, when she should be sleeping. She giggled at the thought._

_“Thank you,” she whispered, running her fingers along the page._

_Tiresias nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said before leaning forward and lowering his voice._

_“If you place that in your room now, Arya, I think you might find something else for you as well.”_

_He picked up his quill and began to write again._

_“You should hurry though,” he muttered, his eyes on the parchment. “I don’t think you would want your mother to discover what’s under your bed.”_

_That was all he needed to say. She raced through the corridors, calling back thanks to the much taller adults who wished her a happy nameday._

_Entering her room, she closed the door quickly, her entire body pressed up against the frame before turning to the bed._

_She crossed first to the shelf, placing the book on top before returning to the bed. Lying down and reaching into the dark, she gasped as she pulled out a bow._

_She held the bow in disbelief for a few seconds, not quite believing it to be so. She had never had anything like this before. Stepping away from the bed, she held it and pulled it back. It was a good size, perfect for her…well, she didn’t know anything about bows, but it seemed perfect to her. Far better than using Bran’s practice bow._

Coming back to the classroom, she looked to her left hand, at her calloused fingers. They no longer hurt, but they made needlework even more difficult. She didn’t mind though. Her evenings with the bow, the wooden sparring swords or her books made her lady lessons more tolerable. She still hated them, but she could also imagine the scowl on Septa Mordane’s face as she drew back her bowstring.

She even got her first bullseye last week. She tried in vain to replicate it, but so far no luck. It still made her grin though. She could hear the arrow hitting the straw perfectly…

Blinking to attention just in time to hear Tiresias’ question, she answered in Valyrian, the words coming from her rough, but correct. The rest of the hour passed more quickly than it would have had they just stared at the books. Tiresias could usually make the books exciting, but even he knew that today was special.

At the end of the hour, he dismissed them. Even Bran responded in the Old Tongue for the farewell. They put away their books and ran from the library. It was time for the midday meal and that was even more difficult to sit through than the lessons. Each bite felt heavier and heavier as they waited for the new Stark cub. Even the blueberry tart didn’t taste as good as it should.

She didn’t even bicker with Sansa. That’s how nervous she was. When the meal ended, she ran off. She didn’t want to be around anyone, not even Jon. Everyone was too quiet, just waiting. It unsettled her.

Desperate for some true quiet, she grabbed her book from her room and ran to the training yard. Careful not to approach the immediate spars in the center, she stuck to the sides and ran over to the younger guards. She stopped before the friendly one and pulled on his shirt.

Jory Cassel turned and looked down at her.

“What are you doing here, my lady?” he asked. “A training yard is no place for a young girl.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked.

Howls of laughter came from Jory’s companions. Jon had told her to say that if any of the soldiers tried to get her to leave. She wished she didn’t have to say it to Jory. He was really nice, but fortunately Jory laughed with the others.

“Well then, I suppose it’s only right then that I escort you from the yard,” he said, smiling. “Come, Lady Arya, I’ll take you to the Septa.”

“Don’t call me Lady!” she retorted hotly before forcing herself to calm. “Septa Mordane is with Mother right now. Everyone’s with Mother.”

Actually the Septa was with Sansa right now. And Jeyne. But Jory didn’t have to know that.

Jory shrugged. “Then where shall I escort you then?”

“I don’t need an escort,” she said, before pointing to the shortest practice sword. “But I need that. Could you reach it for me? Please?”

Jory turned to the others, before placing a hand on her shoulder and walking with her.

“Do you want me in trouble with your lady mother?” he asked lightly. “You know she doesn’t approve.”

“Mother’s having a babe and Father doesn’t mind!” she said. “Come on, you know they let me shoot.”

“That’s different,” said Jory, not quite meeting her eyes.

That was her opening.

“Please, Jory,” she pleaded. “I’m more like to hurt myself with a needle than with that.”

After swearing not to tell Mother, to be careful, and promising to return it, he reached for the sword and gave it to her, calling to her not to run with it as she bolted from the yard. The clinks and hammers faded fast as she ran into the godswood. She weaved in and out and found herself at the weirwood tree.

How long she spent in that godswood she didn’t know. The sword was heavy but she went through the exercises as best she could. At least all the ones that she could remember. She closed her eyes and imagined Jon going through the forms. Eventually her arm tired and she sat down to read.

For a while, she was able to forget Mother in her birthing bed. Her fingers traced the drawings of the spears and forms of the Mormont women, decked in furs and leather armor. A tingle went up her spine and she went to find a long stick. Not quite a spear, but she managed to find one that was longer than her. A little heavy though.

Nevertheless, she propped the book up and went through the first page, holding the stick like a warrior, alone in her world.

But she was still tired from the sparring sword and she was too little. She soon dropped the stick, panting.

Another tingle went up her spine and she stared at the weirwood tree. Sansa didn’t care for the weeping face in the white bark. It was frightening to her. Arya secretly agreed, but she was still drawn to it. She wondered if it was truly alive as Old Nan said. Whether those empty dark eyes were watching her…

She asked Maester Luwin about it once in lessons. He chuckled and said if the weirwoods ever truly saw, that they were blind now. And not to worry. Any secrets that the tree held were forever closed. Only the Children of the Forest could speak to the weirwoods and they were gone now.

Arya heard the scratching of a quill stop when he said that. She turned to see Tiresias at his table eyes down, paused in his scribbling. He wore the slight smile again…

The bells rang, their chimes dimmed in the godswood but she could still hear them. All thoughts of the weirwood immediately vanished from her head. A new Stark was born in Winterfell…

She quickly put the stick away, leaning it up against a tree that she could easily find again. Barely containing her excitement, she gathered her book and sword before running for the exit.

Heading back into the training yard, she heard cheers coming from the men there. Jory took her sword from her with a great smile, telling her to go run and meet her new family. She was already running away when he called that to her.

Placing the book in her room quickly, she hurried to her mother’s room. Robb, Sansa and Bran were in the corridor already. With the Septa.

She steeled herself, but couldn’t slow down. Robb caught her in a hug.

“Lady Arya, where have you been?” asked Septa Mordane.

“In the godswood, praying,” she said quickly. The Septa may have been of the Seven, but she still preferred prayers to the Old Gods over swordplay. Her lips pursed, but her eyes were not too severe. But that didn’t matter to Arya. Not now.

“How’s Mother? Is she all right?” she asked, unable to keep the fear out of her voice, looking to her siblings. Even to Bran, who looked the most relaxed, holding Sansa’s hand.

“Mother’s fine,” said Robb, placing his hand on her shoulder. “The babe’s fine. Father’s with her now. They’re just cleaning the babe up. We can go see them in a little bit.”

Knowing that they had no choice, Arya nodded. The next minutes dripped by more slowly than the entire previous day. Arya paced for a few seconds before the Septa told her to be still.

She sat with Robb and breathed steadily, as Jon taught her. Wishing that he was here, but knowing why he wasn’t, raised her temper and she had to start over.

The breathing helped, but not much. How could she possibly be calm? It was her new brother or sister. Despite being told Mother was safe, she was still nervous. She had to see for herself. Had to know that they were all right. Both of them.

Finally, Father came down the corridor. She stood immediately, thankful for Robb’s hand on her shoulder. Otherwise, she would have barreled at him.

Father arrived and knelt down to her level, but looked to all of them.

“It’s all right. The babe’s healthy and sleeping. Your mother’s very tired as well, but very happy. And she wants you all to meet your new sibling. We all need to be quiet and gentle. Don’t jump on her or scream. It’s very exciting, but we need to be gentle now. All right?”

Arya nodded earnestly. Father stood and took her hand.

“Come on, then.”

They walked down the corridor. A maid walked out of Mother’s room, carrying a bunch of soiled sheets. The smell made her crinkle her nose as she walked, but she said nothing. She heard that birth was messy. She shuddered at the idea of giving birth when she was grown.

Father gave a soft knock before they entered. Arya’s breath seemed to come in shudders as she entered. The room smelled strange as well. And it was warm. A large fire was burning in the hearth.

Mother laid on the bed, her hair undone, her eyes barely open. She smiled as they entered.

“My dears,” she whispered. Ned walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead, taking her hand. Arya walked to her bedside, along with the others.

“Are you all right?” whispered Arya.

Mother nodded. “I’m fine, Arya. I’m just very tired right now. But I’m very happy as well.”

She lowered her voice even more, as though it were a secret.

“Would you like to meet your little sister?”

_Little sister…she had a new sister…_

Mother nodded to the crib in the corner. Father took her hand again and led her to it. He picked her up so she could see.

“Children...say hello to Cara Stark.”

The babe was asleep and wrapped tightly. The only part of her that Arya could see was her red and squashed head. Wisps of dark hair peeked from under her bonnet.

Sansa joined her at her side.

“Mother, she’s beautiful,” she whispered.

_Liar. _

“She looks like a turnip,” Arya whispered back.

Sansa looked horrified. “Arya!”

Robb had a big smile on his face as he looked down. She felt Father quaking with silent laughter before speaking.

“She looks like a normal babe. You were that color when you came out of your mother.” He glanced at Sansa. “As were you.”

When he looked back to Mother, she stuck her tongue out at Sansa, who waited before Father set her down before giving her a light smack on the arm.

“That’s enough,” said Father quietly, his eyes stern. “Now, say goodbye to Mother. She’s going to sleep for the rest of the day. I’ll see you tonight.”

They crossed to the bed, each giving Mother a kiss before exiting the room. Arya climbed gently on the bed and pecked her on the cheek. She could smell the dried sweat.

“Well done, Mother,” she whispered.

Mother smiled. “Thank you, love. Go be with your brothers and sister.”

She walked rigidly to the door and out into the corridor, her feet speeding up as she felt a grin spreading on her face.

_I have a baby sister…_

_I have a baby sister…_

_I have a baby sister!_

When she got to her room, she picked up a pillow and screamed into it. She was more excited than she could ever remember being.

* * *

The Great Hall was crowded that night. Father didn’t care for feasts that much, but Robb told her that he was duty bound as Warden to share his good fortune when he had some. Therefore a new child of House Stark warranted a feast for the whole of Winterfell.

All present certainly seemed to appreciate it. Father accepted congratulations all night and gave numerous assurances to Mother’s health and to Cara’s as well. She lost track of the number of toasts to them both and to Father and to House Stark.

Father raised his cup for every toast and took tiny sips. Arya could never remember seeing him drunk, like the other men in the hall. Tonight, as celebration, Robb and Sansa were allowed a cup of wine each and they had to drink slowly. The Septa was with Mother, so Maester Luwin kept an eye on them.

Luwin had stayed up all night as well, but the old man seemed to be in good spirits. He drank moderately too and waved off the congratulations. He credited Mother for the good birth.

Arya was excited too, but this feast was beginning to become too much for her. Even Jon wasn’t enough to keep her. He was allowed to sit with them at this feast because Mother was bedridden. No one said that, but she knew. However, she’d already eaten dessert and she was antsy to leave.

Father met her eyes and saw her silent plea. He looked around and nodded. She didn’t hesitate, though she did ensure that she walked out of the hall properly before running down the corridor. She encountered very few people on her way. Besides the guards at their posts and the servants in the kitchen, everyone else was stuffed into the Great Hall. The yard would be deserted…

She fetched her bow from her hiding spot in the stables. She didn’t trust the maid who cleaned her chamber not to hand it over to Mother. The night air was crisp as she walked to the training yard and she shivered. She fought through it, knowing she would be warmed up after a few minutes. Besides, she was a wolf and wolves love the cold.

However as she drew nearer to the yard, she stilled. Someone was already there and they were striking something hard and quickly. She crept to the entrance and peered around the corner.

She recognized the lean frame of the man. Tiresias was in front of a training dummy, striking it viciously with a pole staff. She debated going further. Tiresias always seemed to know where everyone was. She could never sneak up on him. But something made her continue and she kept to the shadows, her feet light.

Arya had never seen a grown man cry before and she didn’t realize what was happening until she was closer. Tiresias’ cries echoed through the empty yard, punctuating as he struck the dummy. A fear grew in Arya. His tears, his strikes…he seemed enraged…

Arya didn’t want to be there anymore, but she couldn’t leave. She found herself rooted to the spot and when she was able to move, she only found herself rounding the yard, keeping to the shadows. She still had to see. Tiresias wouldn’t hurt her. She knew that, but she was still scared…

No torch was lit in the yard. The moon and stars were all she had for light. Tears glistened on Tiresias’ cheek. His teeth were clenched and his eyes were dangerous, but still he struck hard and true, his movements quick.

She had never seen him like this. She wondered if Jon had ever seen him like this. He was Tiresias, the quiet librarian, calm and kind. He gave her a book...

But also a bow…was this man in front of her the one who gave her the bow she now carried?

He began to lose control. She saw it. He gripped the pole staff and begin to beat the shoulder of the dummy again and again and again. He yelled with his last strike and stood still with the pole still on the shoulder. His own shoulders were heaving. She didn’t move, didn’t even breathe...

Finally Tiresias crumpled, dropping the staff, and going to his knees, his breath a heavy fog. He was muttering something. She walked forward carefully.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry, Rickon,” he moaned softly. “I’m sorry…”

Her foot sank into some mud and she winced at the squelch. It was enough. Tiresias started and turned to her, his eyes as wide as hers. The dangerous rage she saw in his eyes disappeared quickly and he stood.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Finally, he picked up his pole staff.

“I’m sorry, Arya. I…” He cleared his throat. “I should have…you…you didn’t have to see that.”

He wiped his eyes and breathed.

“Did I scare you?” he asked. She shook her head at once, but he laughed softly.

“Aye, I did. I’m sorry.”

Now he could see everything again. Now that he wasn’t in tears. She didn’t just know what to say. It was a lot colder than she had thought and she shivered.

“I’ll light a brazier for you,” Tiresias said. “Are you here to shoot your bow?”

She nodded.

“Come,” he said, leading her to the archery range. She followed him and in minutes he had lit the brazier by the archery shooting line. He disappeared and reappeared with a quiver of arrows.

“Can I trust you not to hurt yourself?” he asked. She nodded. “Well, good night then, Arya. Again, I’m sorry for frightening you.”

He seemed normal again, but in the brazier's light, his eyes still looked sad. He turned to walk away just as she found her voice.

“Who’s Rickon?” she called after him.

Tiresias froze, but didn’t speak. The crackle of the brazier and the distant songs of Father’s men filled the air. A minute passed but still she waited. Something was different tonight.

Finally, the librarian turned. His face was down again, but when he spoke, his voice was even.

“Rickon was…he was an unfortunate young boy. And I couldn’t save him.”

“Was he your brother?”

Tiresias closed his eyes and smiled that slight smile. But it was different now. That slight smile was so sad.

However it disappeared quickly and Tiresias looked up to her, shaking his head.

“No,” he said softly. “No, he wasn’t.”

Mother had told her not to badger people about sad things. She wanted to ask more about Rickon, about the sad smile, but she held her tongue and picked up an arrow.

“Your dream was wrong,” she said, walking up to the librarian. He gazed down at her. “Mother had a girl, not a boy.”

Tiresias nodded. “Well, dreams are just that, aren’t they? Dreams.” He turned and walked a short distance before stopping. He turned back.

“Congratulations on your new sister, Arya Stark,” he called, before disappearing into the castle.

Arya went to her arrows and back into the warmth of the brazier. She gripped her bow and nocked her first arrow. She drew her arrow back, looking at the target.

Her new sister…another wolf…

She released her breath and the arrow flew, singing in the cold. It stuck near the center. That would down anyone who came near Cara Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, Tiresias can affect this world in positive, negative, and just plain different ways. We'll get a glimpse into his reaction to this week. For now, I hope you enjoyed Arya's POV.
> 
> Thank you again for reading and commenting. Forgot to mention it last week, but this story reached a few bookmarks with over 10k hits, over 500 likes and now, 100 bookmarks (although that could possibly change, depending on how readers respond to this new installation). It's thanks to you readers, so I'm glad you're enjoying this.
> 
> Hope you all are safe with everything that's going on. I'll see you next week.


	20. Chapter Twenty

Even with all that Tiresias wished to change in Westeros, he’d always been able to keep some normalcy in his routine. Sleeping, eating, training, reading, a little leisure now and then. He could still be human, confident with his knowledge of future events.

_But do I still know what’s coming now? Have I changed too much?_

He sat in the Great Hall for breakfast, trying to muster his way through some porridge. It was a losing battle and he found himself glancing at the high table again and again. At little Cara Stark, not Rickon.

By all accounts, Cara was a delightful babe, only a few months old, but beginning to smile widely. He hadn’t met her yet, not trusting himself to keep control should he gaze at the child who took Rickon’s place.

_It’s not her fault_, he told himself for the hundredth time. _It’s only mine. It’s all my fault._

So confident with everything he was affecting, he assumed that Rickon was inevitable. That Lord and Lady Stark would have one more babe and the babe would be little Rickon. Not taking into account that Ned and Catelyn were now taking different paths in their lives. Not incredibly different, but enough to alter the conception of their fifth child. Perhaps Ned was tired on a day that he wasn’t before. Perhaps Catelyn had something on her mind and she wasn’t in the mood. He just couldn’t know.

He returned to his porridge and forced down another bite. It wouldn’t do to forever speculate about this. People only came into the world by pure chance after all. Counting on the fact that one’s parents fucked at the exact right time for one to be born. And their parents before them. And their parents and their parents. It all just went on and on, creating an infinite web of circumstances that allowed one to come into the world.

He had altered those circumstances the minute he woke up in Westeros. And Rickon wouldn’t be born because of that. He would have to accept that and move on. He would be useless otherwise.

However, it would take more time on his part. He couldn’t get over his guilt this morning. The porridge remained unfinished when he stood up to leave for the library. But he couldn’t resist another look back at the high table. Even from this distance, he could see Cara smile and he thought of his niece for the first time in a long time.

_Clark’s niece, not yours…Tiresias has no niece._

Averting his eyes, he saw Mal fetching his bowl and seeing his unfinished meal. She turned to him. He saw reproach and concern in her brown eyes. Inexplicably, he felt his heart lift slightly at the sight. He didn’t know why. Not willing to dwell on it, he turned quickly and exited.

* * *

Months later, Tiresias waited in the Warden’s solar. Surprisingly it wasn’t often that he called Ned Stark for these meetings. Only once every few months would they drop all pretense and speak alone about the coming dangers. In the sennights or months in between, he sometimes forgot that he used to be someone else and that these people in Winterfell were soon about to resemble their show counterparts exactly.

Especially the children. Sansa and Arya were still children but Robb, Jon and Theon were beginning to hit puberty and it was shocking at some points to turn a corner and see their increasingly familiar faces.

Anyway, there didn’t seem to be a need to continuously remind Ned Stark of the impending doom. The dragonglass continued to be shipped in and weapons were fashioned as they came. Mikken used his apprentices to forge the dragonglass, as Tiresias suggested. They saw it as good practice. The idea of where to store the dragonglass, however, came from Lord Stark himself.

The crypts below Winterfell ran deep and they were forbidden to all who were not named Stark. Or at least heavily discouraged to enter. Two guards stood at the entrance at all times. Lord Stark appeared a more religious man than usual, visiting the underground crypts a few times a week. Each time the Lord entered the crypts, he withdrew the dragon glass hidden under his furs and added to the stockpile, bit by bit. One afternoon, he escorted Tiresias down, after they have been importing the dragonglass for a single year.

Tiresias saw what had been piled and his soft swear carried throughout the catacombs. Rows upon rows of dragonglass daggers were stacked along a deep tunnel. And this was only the first year of the dragonglass deal. Sure it wasn’t as large of a collection as he saw before the Battle of Winterfell. But after eight years, or more, if the civil war didn’t disrupt the trade, they would have more than enough dragonglass to arm every Northern soldier, plus however many Free Folk fighters came to their side. The ones that will survive anyway.

And not all of it was here at Winterfell. They started to ship dragonglass to Castle Black about six months ago. Not that the Night’s Watch believed in its value. The rumors of the White Walkers were growing stronger and beginning to be believed as fact among the Rangers. However, most of the Night’s Watch was still resistant to the possibility of the supernatural.

So, Lord Commander Mormont hid a little away, as Lord Stark did, for the right time when it was demanded. For now, the majority of the dragonglass went beyond the Wall. Benjen Stark had not reported a single White Walker in his sighting, but the talks between them and the Free Folk were growing a little more frequent and a little less threatening. However, about three months ago, when Benjen appeared at their parlay with dragonglass, it was accepted more eagerly.

_Only took a few years for you bastards to try it and the word to spread, but whatever…_

The Free Folk never admitted to victories or even skirmishes with the wights. However, in that parley, they interrogated Benjen fiercely about the dragonglass, where it came from and how much could they get past the Wall. Benjen agreed to a trade with Lord Mormont's blessing. And so the talks became more frequent, the Free Folk more punctual and finally word reached Benjen Stark that Mance Rayder would be willing to come down and talk.

Of course, all of this was privileged information. As far as most members of the Night’s Watch were concerned, Benjen was getting far too friendly with the wildling fuckers. It began when he led Craster’s wives south through the tunnel. Despite the fact that they had caused no trouble and integrated well enough on Bear Island, that mercy and his wildling parlays had affected his reputation at Castle Black.

Commander Mormont protected him as best he could and Benjen swore to his Warden brother that his life was not in danger. Still, he was running out of time. There was only so much peaceful banter that could be tolerated before the more extreme factions of the Watch lost their patience.

_The White Walkers have to be brought into the fold a little earlier,_ thought Tiresias more than once. _Something dangerous has to snap these idiots out of killing each other. Otherwise, there will be blood and many, many corpses for the Night King. _

He heard Lord Stark’s trudging footsteps approaching. The house guard as per usual were left at the end of the corridor. Ned entered and shut the door, crossing to his desk and sitting down. Out of all the people in Winterfell, Ned Stark was coming to resemble his character on the show the quickest. He guessed that knowing the threat of the White Walkers coming south and the future southern war beforehand did nothing to relieve his stress. However, if it was too much for the Warden, he never said it.

Tiresias stood before him, waiting patiently. Maybe it was years of living in a feudal system or the respect he had for this man, but he was a bit more deferential than he was the first time he stood in this solar. The chair remained by the hearth.

Finally Lord Stark looked to him.

“Well, would you care to begin or should I?”

Tiresias shrugged. “Probably you, my Lord. If I’m being honest, I really never know how much to tell you or what. I have a few points though. And I believe that this is to be one of those days where I reveal something very upsetting.”

One could hear a pin drop in the solar. No one had bothered to light the fire.

“So, we might as well start light,” said Tiresias.

Ned almost chuckled. “If only storing food for the harshest winter in living memory was a light task.”

“Is there a problem with the food storage, my Lord?”

“No, no. All the farmers are having exceptional yields. They’re beginning their fourth cycle as we speak. Irrigation should start in the coming fortnight and the new fields that we developed have only bolstered our intake. After last harvest, the Broken Storage is only a quarter full. Actually a little more. Within five years, we should be at four-fifths capacity. Should events proceed as you have seen, that will leave us enough time to really stock up before we’re no longer able. At that point as well, the Reach will reach their capacity in storage and the surplus will drive down their cost. They’ll want to sell and ship their crops before they’re ruined. We’ll continue until the last minute. And then there will be enough food to feed us for years. It won’t be very comfortable, but we’ll survive.”

Tiresias nodded, taking it all in. He glanced at the Broken Stores out the window. Not the most creative name, but it did serve a good reminder as to what was there before. After the Broken Tower was taken down, that building took a year to build, but when it was done, it increased the food storage capacity to something absurd. Luwin seemed bemused when he calculated it.

Also it was a little bit of an eyesore and some of the talk around the castle was a little derisive of Lord Stark and his overly cautious ways. However those were usually the thoughts of the young. The older residents of Winterfell admonished those dismissive of the cold and the real hunger that accompanied it. They knew what starvation was, and in their eyes, the slightly awkward building was worth not going hungry in the next winter.

Tiresias returned his gaze to Lord Stark.

“And the Night’s Watch?”

“No update since the last. No White Walkers. No wights. Mance is still a ghost. Although my brother is assured that should he not appear within the next year, he will the following.”

Resisting the urge to grit his teeth, Tiresias thought of Lord Stannis.

“And the dragonglass? Is Lord Stannis still incurious?”

Ned mulled the question over. “I wouldn’t say that, but fortunately King’s Landing provides him with enough distraction. He leaves the running of Dragonstone to Maester Cressen. If he’s revisited the matter since it was first approved, he hasn’t informed me.”

“Well, the dragonglass is still coming. That’s good. I suppose if we leave the matter alone, Stannis will.”

Ned nodded and silence fell in the solar. It endured for a while before Tiresias chuckled.

“It’s been a while since one of those quiet moments.”

“Are you bracing for an unpleasant truth?” asked Lord Stark.

“I suppose. You should be too.”

There was a glint in Lord Stark’s eye that only appeared when they spoke of this. Tiresias met it easily, but it took a few meetings to do so. A few meetings of truths that will quietly shift the direction of the story. Hopefully.

“It’s funny,” said Tiresias. “I feel as I always do. Not knowing where to start. I apologize. I imagine it’s rather annoying.”

“Is it my bannermen?” asked Ned, his voice low.

Tiresias shook his head. “No…well…” He reconsidered. “Perhaps…what I wish to speak of today concerns King Robert and his hand, Jon Arryn.”

Ned nodded slowly.

“All right…what about King Robert and Jon?”

Tiresias repeated his mantra.

_Fuck me. Here we go._

“In a matter of years, before the White Walkers invade…Jon Arryn will die. And no, I cannot save him.”

Ned’s face seemed frozen, although after a few seconds, his eyes traveled to the desk. Tiresias let them rest there for a while. He couldn’t blame Lord Stark for his reaction. Lord Arryn was like a father to him and in a way, this was worse than just hearing of a loved one’s passing. To know they’ll die and that one will be powerless to stop it.

At least that’s what Tiresias believed. He truly did. He may have killed Littlefinger, but if the state of affairs in King’s Landing aren’t altered too extremely, Lord Arryn will start to look at Robert’s bastards around the city. He’ll notice the same things that he noticed before. He’ll read the same book of lineages and he’ll discover the same thing...

He couldn’t imagine him living long afterwards. Cersei or Jaime or Pycelle will ensure his demise before he brings his suspicions to Robert. Littlefinger merely took advantage of a perfect situation to incite the war. So even with Littlefinger taken out, Tiresias still suspected that Jon Arryn will be killed by some party in King’s Landing. A party that needed silence when it came to the truth of Cersei’s children.

He hoped he was right. As much as it meant wishing death on another man. He hated himself for it.

Ned collected himself and looked back up at Tiresias.

“Why?”

Tiresias shook his head.

“I can’t say.”

“The hell you can’t.” Lord Stark stood from his desk. He was still in control but his frustration was apparent. “I want you to tell me exactly why Lord Arryn died and why I can’t save him.”

“My visions of Westeros didn’t include him.”

“Your visions…you seem to see a lot in these visions, and yet you can’t see the Lord Hand of the Seven Kingdoms…”

“He was already dead,” said Tiresias, raising his voice slightly. “The first vision I had included his funeral. He was never alive when I saw him.”

He wished the fire was lit. He was desperate for something to fill the silence. It would be worth the stifling heat. Ned continued to stare at him. He had to be the one to continue.

“It’s not how he died that’s important. It’s what happens after, what his passing triggers and it will be catastrophic. It’s the event that begins the war in the South, though that’s not how it appears.”

Ned sat back down, sighing. His frustration was replaced with a deep sadness. However, he refocused and looked to Tiresias.

“What happens?”

“Well, obviously the King needs a new hand. He ignores all suggestions of any southern Lords and rides straight here. Not only to offer you the position of Hand of the King, but the hand of Prince Joffrey in marriage to Sansa as well. You accept both. This, Lord Stark, will be the biggest mistake of your life. Within a year in King’s Landing, Robert will be dead and you’ll follow him soon. Prince Joffrey will take your head and that will kick off the war.”

Ned stared at him silently. Tiresias had debated so much of this conversation with himself. What to tell and what not and the beheading of Lord Stark was one of his most contested points. Ultimately he decided for it and he hoped it was the right call.

Lord Stark cleared his throat.

“Why?”

“You discover a secret in King’s Landing. Before you’re able to tell Robert, he is killed and then you are killed to ensure silence.”

_Not technically true, but it will do._

“What truth?” asked Ned.

Tiresias sighed. “That King Robert Baratheon has no trueborn heirs. None by Queen Cersei. Only bastards.”

Ned blinked. He probably had never seen Cersei’s children before so it wasn’t obvious.

“No trueborn heirs?”

Tiresias shook his head. “None.”

“But…but the three royal children, Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen, all Baratheons…”

“Only in name.”

Ned took it all, breathing steadily.

“Their real father?”

_Oh boy…_

“Ser Jaime Lannister.”

Now the solar was very quiet. And it remained that way for a decent amount of time.

“The Queen’s brother?”

“The same.”

“All of them…his?”

“All three. Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen are no Baratheons. Their true name is Waters. And they are as blonde as their father.”

“Jaime Lannister,” Ned almost growled. “I knew he had no honor, but this…”

“Jaime Lannister has made many mistakes,” Tiresias interjected before Ned could continue. “But he is vital to the future I saw and I would advise you not to go running off to King’s Landing, demanding his head.”

“So I am to say nothing of this to Robert?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s right,” said Tiresias, more coolly than he perhaps meant. “You will say nothing because to say anything would jeopardize the safety of your family and the fragile peace that keeps the South running.

“You may say nothing, however…you may act on it. That’s why I told you.”

Lord Stark looked at him like he never really seen him before.

“You knew this the moment you first walked into Winterfell and said nothing?”

“That’s right. I told you from the beginning that I couldn’t speak of all that I knew in one afternoon. If I did, you would have thrown yourself onto Ice and ended it. There are things that I still haven’t spoken of and things that I’ll perhaps never speak of. This is a delicate act, Lord Stark and in order to survive, we need to act delicately. At least you do. You’re somebody in this kingdom. I’m not. I can afford a bit of foul play.”

The lines in Lord Stark’s forehead decreased. He took that as a good sign.

“How you may act…I recommend that you take proactive measures to arm yourself against the Lannisters and Robert Baratheon. Jon Arryn will die and when he does, your friend will come north and practically beg you to come south. He’ll offer his son’s hand in marriage. Or demand, really. I doubt a king really offers or begs anything.

“So you will need betrothals and fast. Anything to keep Sansa, or even Arya, out of Joffrey’s grasp.”

Ned blinked. “Ayra? Why Arya?”

“Robert fantasizes about uniting his family and yours. It's a dream that goes back to his pining for Lyanna.”

They rarely spoke of Jon Snow’s mother. Ned seemed to understand at once, but Tiresias voiced it anyway.

“Even though Arya is the second daughter, Robert might be so desperate that he betroths Joffrey to Arya anyway, should Sansa be unavailable. I know that Arya will hate it, but perhaps if you explain that it’s only for her protection and that she can break it if she wants, however…”

He trailed off, sighing. He felt very tired all of a sudden.

“Do you wish to sit?” asked Lord Stark. He sounded tired as well.

Tiresias nodded. “I would, thank you.”

Ned Stark joined him at the hearth and they both sank into the chairs. Though there was no fire, they still stared at the empty pit.

“This is a damn mess,” murmured Ned.

“Of course,” agreed Tiresias. “It’s the perfect way to start a war.”

“How could this all have happened?”

_Because some old man in my world decided it would make for an exciting story? And put pen to paper?_

Tiresias shrugged. “Men…well, not just men. Women too. They’ve all just made it much more complicated than it needs to be. Everyone, they just make choices every day that seem smart or good in the short run and they don’t mind if it’s selfish or wrong if they just feel good today. No one believes that their decisions will catch up to them. And in a few years, they’ll be proven wrong. A fire is going to catch in the Seven Kingdoms and it will rage and destroy us all before the White Walkers even cross.

“And to be honest, Lord Stark, I’m not sure if I can save the South.”

Ned continued to stare, but Tiresias could tell he was listening.

“Maybe in a couple of years, I’ll go down. See what I can do. What’s changed, but…” He sighed. “I honestly don’t see what I can do. It’s hard enough to save one kingdom. That’s why my main piece of advice has always been, when in doubt, stay in the North.”

“You’ll have me abandon my friend?” Ned asked quietly.

“Aye, I would.” He sighed again. “Lord Stark, I won’t pretend that I like Robert Baratheon. He’s amusing and he seems fun, but he’s also a man who will gladly kill your nephew for who his father was. You obviously know this. He whores and drinks, which are fine in moderation, but he lets the kingdom rot while he does so.

“Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t give a flying fuck about kings. My point is that Robert Baratheon is already dying. He’s slowly killing himself. You’ll see it when he rides north. You’ll barely recognize him. You’ll see a miserable man who’s blind to his surroundings.”

He spoke softly to try and lessen the blow, but Ned was silent when he ended. And he knew it was his turn to wait. Fortunately, he didn’t wait long.

Ned turned to face him. “How can I refuse him when he comes?”

Tiresias met his gaze and Ned sighed.

“I’m not speaking because he’s my friend. I’m speaking because there are only so few times you can offend a king before you incur serious consequences. Offering me the position of Hand and betrothing my daughter to the future King. And coming to Winterfell himself to do so…it will be seen as a great insult if I refuse him on both offers. And if Sansa is already engaged, and he just passes the offer down to Arya and I refuse that as well…”

He sighed again and turned back to the hearth. Tiresias imagined that scenario himself and thanked God it was so far away. He certainly didn’t know how to navigate it.

“I didn’t say it was easy,” he murmured. “I told you I’m no politician. Perhaps you and Luwin can find a way, discretely. But I’m afraid I don’t know how you will manage Robert’s feelings. You’re right. There’s only so far you can push a king’s friendship.”

“I’ll start with the betrothals,” Ned stated softly. The focus in his eyes was back and he was ready for something. “It may not hold, but it will be something. Catelyn and I will discuss it in the coming months. My only concern is that if these engagements remain unbroken against the request of a king, then they must be seen through.”

Running his hand over his face, Tiresias sighed.

“Well, perhaps just Robb and Sansa then. Not to be cruel, but I don’t see Robert surviving long enough to force Arya to wed Joffrey. Who knows? He might even die before Sansa's wed.”

Ned’s face tightened.

“Is it absolutely vital that all of my children marry in the North?”

Tiresias shrugged. “Perhaps the Vale will be safe. But honestly, I wouldn’t tie yourself to any Southern house now. Something is coming for them, even after the civil war.”

“And what would that be?”

He shook his head, resisting the urge to smile at the Warden.

“I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait until another day, my Lord.”

The meeting was over, Tiresias could tell. Perhaps Ned could handle more, but the man had just learned the secret that will drive the Seven Kingdoms to ruin. He learned of Lord Arryn’s future death, of Robert’s and even of his own. And he had to keep it all to himself.

He wondered if he caused any strain in Ned’s marriage. Whether Catelyn noticed the weight of the world on her husband’s shoulders. Perhaps that had always been Ned’s way.

He rose to leave, though he paused at the door.

“My Lord,” he said. Ned turned to him. “I’m not just warning you against marrying Prince Joffrey because of his bastardy. That doesn’t matter to me, though the incest is…well, it’s gross, but I’m warning you because he’s a monster and he enjoys cruelty. And Sansa will be distracted by his pretty exterior and not notice the rot before it’s too late. When he takes your head and she is forced to watch.”

He inclined his head and made to leave before Ned spoke.

“And the other two? Myrcella and Tommen? Are they cruel as well?”

Tiresias shook his head.

“No. No, they’re not.” He chuckled without finding anything funny. “Not quite sure how they managed it, but they’re good children.”

“Robert will kill them if he finds out.”

Tiresias shrugged. “Well, I won’t tell him if you won’t.”

He knocked the wooden door lightly. He needed some luck.

“One day at a time, my lord. One task after another.”

He left the Lord of Winterfell to his thoughts. That conversation didn’t go as well as he had hoped. For all he knew, Ned Stark might try to still save those in King’s Landing. He hoped he could douse such desires, even though he understood them. But at least Robert wouldn’t catch the Stark household off guard when he marched up here.

Ned was right. They needed firm reasons to reject the generous offers of a king. The North couldn’t afford to lose its men and resources before the White Walkers invaded. Again.

The betrothals were perhaps not enough, but it was something. As for Ned refusing the position of the Hand of the King…perhaps that would be more difficult.

Who knows? The North was probably going to get more complicated in the next few years. Perhaps Ned Stark could just point out the obvious and insist that he must stay to sort it out and tell Robert to go fuck himself.

In more diplomatic terms, of course.

* * *

Following his discussion, he didn’t speak again to Ned privately for months. So he didn’t know for certain how the Lord of Winterfell was taking his advice.

He did hear rumors though. Of potential suitors to Robb. Names came to him through various whispers. Alys Karstark, though she was Sansa’s age, was suitable for a future betrothal. If Robb wasn’t to wait longer for his bride to come of age, there was Wynafred Manderly. Lyra Mormont was whispered once, but as she wasn’t the first born Mormont, he didn’t put much stock into that scenario.

During lessons one week, he found himself looking at Robb in the library. Talisa came to his mind for the first time in years. The night when she confessed her reason for coming to Westeros. That night when he broke his vow...

_I’m sorry, Talisa, _he wondered more than once. Not for preventing her death at the Twins. But she and Robb…they certainly did love each other. And now she was just another person that Tiresias would apologize to in his mind.

Coming back to the current potential betrothals, it actually disturbed him to hear the rumors. If he was hearing them here, he could only imagine how far the news was traveling beyond Winterfell. That Lord Stark was now seeking a bride for his heir. After all, it wasn’t every day that a future Lord Paramount was engaged. It would certainly reach the Red Keep and the ears of Robert before they were ready. And in the King’s mind, if Robb was ready to be promised, why not Sansa?

Tiresias refused to be stuck on that. Perhaps he was overreacting. Robb’s future marriage was always going to bring speculation and jostling from the highborn. He wouldn’t be surprised if it had started when Lady Catelyn first fell pregnant with him. All the Lords, and not just in the North, thinking of a powerful future son-in-law...

It was certainly on the minds of the children. About once a week, Robb was mercilessly teased, with Theon and Arya being the biggest agitators. In public, he reacted with the usual overblown embarrassment that delighted his teasers. When he wasn’t playing though, he seemed to take the whole endeavor seriously. He knew his duty. He knew he was to rule Winterfell one day and an arranged marriage was part of it.

Tiresias hoped that was it and the talk of betrothals would mostly stay confined to Winterfell. No one spoke of a future husband for Sansa yet. For now, the maids had something new to gossip about. The house guards had something new to bet on. And the children had something new to tease about.

Unfortunately that was far from the only headache plaguing Tiresias. Something else was bothering him, sometimes to the point where he couldn’t sleep and could barely concentrate on anything when he was awake.

It troubled him most days. One of these days found Tiresias pacing in the godswood during a windy spring afternoon. The weirwood tree was his only witness. Here he was alone, trying to hash out the thorn that was only burrowing deeper into his head.

In the aftermath of his talk with Ned Stark, he kept coming to the same question over and over again: why didn’t he tell Lord Stark about Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons? Why hadn’t he yet?

Actually, those questions led to another one: what the fuck was he going to do about Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons?

It was a good question and one that he had asked himself ever since he came to Winterfell. He had put it off. Always. Daenerys was far away. In Essos. Right now, she and Viserys were between the Free Cities, on the run. Trying desperately not to be killed.

He would be lucky to find them if he went and that would mean abandoning Westeros for a few years while he did so. And anything could happen while he was gone.

And the dragons…Viserion, Rhaegal and Drogon, all still eggs. Yet to be born.

Should they be?

That was another question that haunted him. These dragons were weapons. Ones that would be useful against the White Walkers.

Ones that would benefit the White Walkers too, should the Night King down another one.

Weapons that would also be under the sole control of one person. Determined to rule, not to be powerless. Never again. She would never more be the little girl hiding in alleyways. She would hatch her dragons. She would fly high. She would burn King’s Landings to the ground…

Tiresias stopped himself and dropped, lying on the grass, staring at the sky. He had no idea how he laid there until he finally sat up. He crossed his legs and stared at the dark pool before him.

Whatever his reasoning, whatever his decision…he had to make it now. He didn’t have a precise date for when Jorah Mormont would flee Westeros to escape justice. If he decided to stop Daenerys from hatching her dragons and halting her ascendency in its tracks, catching Jorah before he left wouldn’t be the worst action.

However, if he decided to roll the dice and let her hatch her dragons again…he could remain silent.

But he had to decide. Rumors were already arriving at Winterfell of the dissatisfied wife of Lord Jorah. His spending was beginning to be noticed. Had he already begun to sell poachers into slavery? Tiresias didn’t know. But it meant that the time was near for Jorah’s exile. As tempted as Tiresias was to let fate run its course in this regard, he knew deep down if he didn’t make a conscious decision whether or not to stop Daenerys…he would regret it.

He picked up a small stone and looked around. Once he was sure he was alone, he turned back to the pond.

“Reason for hatching three dragons,” he murmured. “The Army of the Dead. Fire is one of the only things that can stop them. We need that firepower.”

He tossed the stone in and picked up another.

“But do we need that firepower? If the Night King doesn’t get his hands on Viserion or any other dragon…will we really need that kind of firepower to beat them back?”

_Plop. _The pond rippled as the stone sank.

“Probably…Jon Snow was seeking that firepower when he sailed down to Dragonstone. With the wights dragonless and firmly behind the Wall. Even if the Army of the Dead doesn’t reach the size that it did previously…even if it’s only fifty thousand or forty, it’s still a tidal wave of unfeeling soldiers crashing into Winterfell. You can’t beat that magic without magic.”

_Plop._

“Jon Snow sought help after the North was devastated. When they couldn’t even summon ten thousand soldiers. We’re already preparing for the White Walker invasion. We have years ahead of them…well, maybe not. They’ve been amping up too, but the point is we’re working to fight them.”

He turned the stone over in his hand.

_Can a strong and united North beat back the Army of the Dead on its own?_

Tiresias sighed. “I don’t know…assuming that the Night King will find another way to cross the Wall…we have more time to make Winterfell battle-ready. We can hold them off, especially if they’re a smaller force and if they don’t have an undead dragon to cut through our defenses…maybe…”

He looked down at the stone.

“But that’s me being arrogant …I’m underestimating the Night King. I’m counting on the Army of the Dead being smaller. On absolutely nothing going wrong in the North or the South to distract us from our task. I’ve heard little from beyond the Wall. What is Mance Rayder doing? Are the Free Folk moving south? Are they fighting? Are they losing? Even with dragonglass, will the White Walkers simply adjust their fighting strategy? They did in the show. Let the wights take the brunt of it. Just a sea of corpses.”

Rolling the stone, it dawdled into the water.

_And the South is still a tinderbox. One spark will ignite that goddamn war. Lannisters and Baratheons at each other’s throats. How will the North stay neutral? If they stay neutral, they'll be screwed should they need help when the White Walkers come…_

“All right, you’re getting off-track.” A soft bitter laugh escaped him. “What’s the point? I shouldn’t take out our biggest weapon out of the fight. It’s too risky.”

_You did that already with the Valyrian dagger._

“All the more reason to keep the dragons in the fight. I can’t guarantee that the Valyrian dagger will be there with the same fighter that Arya became to end the battle.”

_Dragonfire didn’t stop him though. He smiled after a full blast from Drogon._

“Well, it sure as hell stopped a decent amount of his army. As long as he doesn’t down one of them…”

Which sounded stupidly risky as he said it. He picked up another stone.

“Okay, okay…” He breathed in and held it, releasing on a four count.

_The Army of the Dead, the Night King…you’re taking care of that...sort of…but you’ve ignored the South for years. Killing Littlefinger…that’s history, that’s done…what happens when Daenerys Targaryen lands in Westeros? What will she be here to do?_

He lifted his head and flung the stone into the pool.

“She’s coming to conquer. And there’s no such thing as a bloodless conquest. People are going to die…

“In an ideal world, if she had to come, if she didn’t decide to burn the people, she could still topple someone I don’t care for…but does that mean letting Joffrey rule for years beforehand? And what if the Tyrells entangle themselves again with the Lannisters? Margaery was probably the best queen for the South…but she’ll be a target for Daenerys if she lands…”

His temples hurt and he rubbed them gently. He wanted to stop thinking about this, but he couldn’t. He had to decide.

“If I make it south…and things proceeded relatively close to what happened, if Ser Barristan is dismissed and he goes to Essos…if Tyrion does…maybe I give warnings of the Sons of the Harpy…maybe if I could prevent Barristan’s death…”

_But even I keep her advisors alive and she doesn’t feel alone when she comes west, will that curb her worst tendencies? When Ser Barristan was alive, he certainly couldn’t._

_And with those dragons, she will have sole control of three weapons of mass destruction. That will affect anyone’s thinking. Anyone’s perspective. Will she keep advisors close that counsel restraint? For how long? Aerys was sane when he was younger and he didn’t have three dragons to help him descend into paranoia, going through different hands and confidants like changing clothes…_

“And I’m arrogant,” said Tiresias, picking up another stone. “If I allow her to come, thinking I can control her, even if it’s indirectly through her advisors, I will be making the same mistake so many others did. She’s a dragon. She’ll act like one. And I can’t control a dragon. No one truly can.”

He flicked the stone across the water.

_But Daenerys was more than just a dragon, just a Khaleesi. What about Mhysa? If you stop her, what about Grey Worm and Missandei? And so many others? Are you content to let them be enslaved? Along with the hundreds of thousands in Slaver’s Bay?_

Tiresias shook his head. “No.” Even though, she left Essos probably ripe for the Masters to take over again…though a bloody rebellion is definitely one starting point for a different world…for better or worse...

He leaned back, feeling the grass tickle his neck.

_Besides, even if Jorah is taken out of the picture, do you think Varys would let her die? He’s tracking Viserys and Dany across the Free Cities and is responsible for the constant failures of Robert’s assassins. He has influence across the Narrow Sea. Do you? If you decided to move against Dany, how could you even touch her? _

“I couldn’t.” A thought came to him as well. “But if I decide not to kill her, I can’t save her either. She’s already traumatized. And I can’t get to her and salvage the situation. It’s too late.”

Rickon Stark came to mind. The youngest Stark replaced and erased from existence. Would Drogon, Rhaegal and Viseron suffer the same fate if he intervened? If he put Daenerys on a different path as he did with Lord and Lady Stark?

“If I want her to bring the dragons to this fight, I have to let the story unfold as it did…as much as it can now…I have to let her suffer further.”

His mind quieted for a minute. The wind sang lightly among the trees. He gripped a final stone.

_So…you’ll let her starve?_

“Yes.”

_You’ll let her be raped?_

“Yes.”

_You’ll let her hatch the dragons? In all her love and fury?_

“Yes.”

His arm hung limply at his side. Any desire to chuck it into the pond evaporated.

_Whatever the dragons bring…it’s now on you. If the Night King slays Viserion, if King’s Landing burns, if half a million people die…that will be on you and her. Equally._

“I know.” He felt the stone drop to the ground.

_But I want to see dragons…it’s so childish…but I do._

Tiresias exited the godswood. He never felt so stupid in his entire life. But he had made his decision.

Two months later, he was in the kitchens for the midday meal when he heard a commotion in the front courtyard. He exited to see Gord and other soldiers saddling up.

“Gord,” he said, approaching him. “What’s going on?”

“We’re riding fast,” said the big man, not slowing down. “Lord Jorah Mormont was reported to be selling poachers off his land into slavery. Lord Stark and us…we’ll be riding out today for the King’s Justice.”

Tiresias found that his hands were tightly gripped and loosened them.

_No…no, you’re too late. Jorah’s gone. All that will be left of him will be Longclaw…_

All the soldiers halted what they were doing and sprung to attention. Tiresias turned to see Lord Stark entering the courtyard. Ser Rodrik strode behind him, carrying Ice.

Sensing this was not his place, Tiresias got out of the way, keeping to the sides as Lord Stark mounted his horse. As he turned, the Lord of Winterfell looked his way. Tiresias saw the obvious question in his eyes.

_Did you know?_

Part of him wanted to feign ignorance, but a larger part of him couldn’t muster it. He met Lord Stark’s eyes and didn’t deny it. Ned seemed to sigh internally, wanting to ask why. But the horses were ready and they had to move. The gates opened and Ned spurned his horse forward, taking his place behind the front guard. Soon the soldiers were gone and the sounds of galloping hooves faded into the afternoon.

The courtyard returned to normal, as people continued their work. Tiresias stood still for far too long before returning to the keep, his midday meal quite forgotten.

_You’ve just made a terrible mistake, Tiresias._

He entered his room and locked the door. He managed to kick off his boots before collapsing on top of the bed.

_Maybe…but I’d probably say the same if I made the opposite decision as well._

He was more exhausted than he had any right to be. Sleep was coming fast.

_I’ve made my bed. Now I get to sleep in it…although the saying should really be...you slept in your bed, now make it…_

_Whatever, it’s done…I’ll act accordingly._

Without further ado, he shut his eyes. That afternoon, he slept better than he had in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your patience as I got my computer issues sorted. Next chapter will posted on Tuesday as normal, save for any more shenanigans.
> 
> Stay safe and healthy, readers!


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

The news of Ser Jorah’s flight from Westeros reached Winterfell before Ned returned. Though Tiresias was certain that he wouldn’t be horribly punished for withholding that piece of knowledge, he couldn’t help but be anxious as he awaited Lord Stark’s summon.

However, the summon didn’t come. For the next week or so, whenever he encountered Ned Stark, the man greeted him politely. He supposed this was smart. It wouldn’t do for the Warden of the North to check in with the librarian whenever he left for or returned from an important task. Tiresias had his work. A lord had his.

Ned only mentioned it later as Tiresias approached him on the balcony above the archery range. He was overseeing the children shooting and nodded in greeting as Tiresias approached.

“Tiresias.”

“Lord Stark.”

They watched the lesson below for a few moments in silence. Arya, now six, was hitting the marks as consistently as her older brothers. Only Theon was ahead of her. However even his cocky attitude waned slightly as Arya shot. Perhaps he could see her overtaking him.

As Arya finished and listened to the final adjustments and instructions by Robb and Jon, Theon stepped up. And for once, he was quiet about it.

With their eyes still on the young archers, Ned spoke quietly.

“I assume that Ser Jorah Mormont had a part to play in your visions?”

“Aye,” Tiresias murmured. “He was exiled to Essos when I first saw him. He has his own path to follow.”

“And did you know what he had done? To earn his exile?”

Tiresias said nothing and his silence was interpreted correctly. Ned turned to him.

“You allowed men to be sold into slavery,” he said quietly.

“Aye.” Tiresias met his eyes. “Just like I allowed Lannisport to burn.”

_And an innocent woman to hang._

However, he didn’t see blame in Ned’s eyes. Just a weary sadness. The Lord turned back to his children and ward. Their laughter and camaraderie seemed to strengthen him.

Tiresias could sense the dismissal. He nodded and turned to leave, before remembering one more thing.

“If I may, Lord Stark,” he asked. “Did Ser Jorah Mormont leave behind Longclaw?”

“Aye. I had it sent to Castle Black, to the Lord Commander.” The connection clicked for Ned Stark as he turned, his eyes piercing Tiresias. “Valyrian steel?”

Tiresias couldn’t help a small smile and he swore he saw Ned’s eyes lighten a little. There was no need to say anything more. He walked away, leaving Ned to his fatherly post.

* * *

The next year passed in relative comfort for the residents of Winterfell. Food was continuing to be stored. The Broken Stores was now at half-capacity. Which was slightly concerning for Lord Stark and Tiresias, as they were the only ones who knew of the upcoming winter. All others just saw the surplus.

However they haven’t begun to import food from the Reach yet. That would be in two years and it would increase their stores exponentially.

The surplus of food made the dragonglass easier to import as well. An increasingly number of whispers were made among the servants as to Lord Stark’s intentions and the purpose of reshaping the useless obsidian into daggers, spearheads, arrowheads and such. There were only so times Mikken could make his apprentices practice with the material. However, the dragonglass shipments were still spaced to every two months. And with the tale provided by Sorcha, who was questioned by a few curious inhabitants on her last visit and the increase of the food stores, Lord Stark’s continual purchase of the dragonglass was seen in lighter terms than they expected.

At least Tiresias hoped. As far as he was aware, no whispers of the dragonglass have gone beyond Wintertown. It stayed in the crypts and the piles of it continued only to grow. It should remain safe until the day arrived when they would need it.

However, he was not Varys. He didn’t have a network of spies throughout the Seven Kingdoms. And with Littlefinger dead, he could only imagine how the strength and reach of the Spider’s knowledge had grown unabated. Was he even aware of the librarian up north and the things he had done?

Tiresia mused at some points that perhaps; that was why he continued to work as the Winterfell librarian, riding to keeps and collecting tomes. From Bear Island to Barrowton. And otherwise, leading a quiet, scholarly life in the castle. There were only so many times one could travel and disrupt life in Westeros with assassinations before being noticed. He valued his anonymity in this country. Treasured it more than most things. However, things were beginning to come to a head. Littlefinger and Craster were long dead and they weren’t the only ones he had to deal with. Staying in the shadows may not be possible for long.

But he couldn’t rush. It was good to stay hidden until absolutely necessary. And so he waited, worked and enjoyed the relative peace while it was here. And continued to train, watch and listen. Things would come. As they always have.

* * *

However, it wasn’t always dour news he received. One evening, Tiresias waited in the training yard for Gord. Tonight the big man was running late. He didn’t let that halt this exercise though; taking the pole staff and striking the training dummy precisely and repeatedly. After a while, he was so engrossed, he barely caught Gord sneaking up behind.

He turned and swung the pole staff to block the blunt of the training sword.

“Fucker, I almost had you!” Gord backed away laughing.

“Almost, Gord, almost.”

He did a double take. Gord was usually amiable, but this was borderline obnoxious. He was grinning, his eyes practically begging Tiresias to inquire…

Tiresias sighed. “What is it, Gord?”

Gord spread his arms. “What do you see?”

Tiresias poked him in the stomach with the pole-staff. Gently. “Your gut?”

“Nah, mate.” He lowered his hands, the grin still strong. “You see a promised man.”

Staking his pole into the ground, Tiresias felt his own grin growing. “Ginn?”

“Nah, Old Nan,” said Gord, before shaking his head. “Fuck’s sake, ‘course it’s Ginn. I asked and she said aye. Went to Lord Stark just now. He weds us in a month.”

Tiresias started laughing, striding forward and embracing the man. “Congratulations, Gord! She’s a lucky woman. And you’re a lucky man.”

“Aye, aye, we’re all lucky.” He patted Tiresias on the back before pushing him away and positioning himself.

“You still want to train?”

“Fuckin’ aye, I do. I’ve so much vigor, I need to hit something. And then we celebrate. Whoever lands the most hits buys our drinks tonight.

“And tonight,” he added, anticipating Tiresias’ question. “No handicaps. Use your speed. Dance, ye bastard.”

“You sure?” asked Tiresias, as he swung the staff to his starting position. “I was beating you before without it.”

“I’m sure,” said Gord, his big grin breaking out again. Tiresias had never seen him so happy. “I’m a man in love, mate. Tonight, no man can beat me.”

That ended up not being true, but Gord didn’t hold it against him. After a few rounds with Gord landing in the dirt laughing, the two called it an early night. They put their weapons away and strode for the western gates, gathering Jory, Otis and a few others. Tadd tagged along, much to Tiresias’ displeasure, and they invaded the nearest tavern in Wintertown.

As much as he wanted to celebrate with his friend, Tiresias never allowed himself to become piss-drunk. He never wanted to risk saying something he shouldn’t. Tonight was no exception. He danced around the offered drinks all night, laughing off the japes to his manhood and remained merry and relatively sober as the Winterfell guards descended into drink.

Gord began to challenge all in the tavern to arm-wrestling and the competition grew. Tiresias nursed his ale and cheered with the others as Jory slung his arm around his shoulder.

“You all right there, Jory?”

“Aye, aye, just…need your shoulder for a bit. Room’s spinning. Apologies.”

“No worries.”

Gord smashed a farmer’s hand into the table and Tiresias was worried that he actually hurt him. However the farmer laughed and shook Gord’s hand.

“Will this be you one day, Jory?”

“What…Whatacha mean?” slurred the guard.

“When you meet a nice girl…you'll walk in here? Have a couple jars? Beat up the poor farmhands?”

Jory laughed. “Sure…sure, I mean, I do-I don’t want to beat up anyone, but…that’s, yeah, I’ll have a drink…drinks…”

Tiresias chuckled lightly. Despite the slurring, Jory was the soberest man here, next to him. He supposed having Ser Rodrik as an uncle instilled some restraint.

“But first I have to find a girl...who’ll have me.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” Tiresias took a sip. “You’re good-looking, Captain of the Guards…”

“Captain?” asked Jory, his eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

_Shit._

“Future Captain, sorry.”

Jory shrugged. “Maybe. If so…if so, it’s only cause of me uncle…”

“It’s only cause of Lord Reed I’m here at Winterfell,” responded Tiresias lightly. “You’re a good swordsman. And a good leader. When you’re sober.”

They burst into light laughter. Gord had managed to convince the tavernkeeper to sit across from him. The thin man looked petrified.

“Point is, I expect to see you where Gord is. Hopefully treating the tavernkeeper better.”

“Cheers,” said Jory, raising his cup.

The match ended quickly, though thankfully Gord had enough sense not to slam the keeper’s hand into the table.

“Just need…just need to find someone,” said Jory, taking a draught. “Don’t have any special one in mind though, like Gord…like you…”

Tiresias froze, a tinge of energy running through him. He turned to Jory.

“Me?”

“Wot?”

“You said me. What do you mean me?”

Jory stared at him for a bit, opening his mouth and closing it several times, before clapping Tiresias on the back.

“I’m drunk,” he clipped. “And it’s your turn.”

Tiresias just realized that Gord was calling for him to sit down. He turned back to Jory, but the man had already slipped away.

_What the fuck did he mean?_

“Tiresias! Get over here, ye bastard! You can’t dodge this.”

Feeling as though he was floating, he blinked and brought himself back to earth. He sat down across from Gord, holding out his hand.

Gord gripped it grinning.

“Come on, mate. Guarantee you my hand weighs than any tomes you’ve carried.”

Tiresias swallowed and plastered a grin on his face.

“Certainly more than all the tomes you’ve ever carried, Gord.”

That was perhaps a mistake. Tiresias held for a solid time, but ultimately he couldn’t push back and Gord finally slammed his hand down. Afterwards, he forgot Jory’s words, succumbing to painful laughter.

* * *

Tiresias had never seen so many people gathered in the godswood before. But then again, he had never seen a Northern wedding before.

At least, not in real life. Bran was quite right in a way. Her dress exquisite, her hair immaculate, Sansa did indeed look beautiful as she married here that cold night…

_That will not happen. I’ll make damn sure it doesn’t._

Gord and Ginn made for a much more happy couple than Ramsay and Sansa. Though that wasn’t a high standard. More modest too. Gord’s attire was freshly laundered. Ginn didn’t have a wedding dress of white, but she wore her best one. It was dark red, repaired and patterned quite beautifully. Mal had worked on it every evening this past month.

Ginn also wore a crown of flowers from the glass gardens. A gift from Catelyn Stark, who stood politely in front.

Catelyn Stark may not have worshipped the Old Gods, but she did her duty in supporting her household. She seemed genuinely happy for the couple. Ned Stark stood before Gord and Ginn. The entire ceremony was quick. Perhaps the fact that no nobility was wedded today helped, but Lord Stark said his words reverently and treated the affair as seriously as he ever did. He blessed the marriage and joined Ginn and Gord together to rapturous applause. Tiresias clapped along with the rest as the newlyweds kissed, Ginn disappearing a bit into Gord’s beard, laughing as she came up for air.

Immediately afterwards they proceeded to the feast. It was modest as the wedding. They were permitted the kitchens to prepare the food, but they used the courtyard outside the kitchen to celebrate. Everyone thanked the old gods for the clear skies that meant no rain tonight. It would still be crisp, but that was what the braziers and drink were for.

And the drink did flow. Lord Stark had an ale, said his blessings and departed along with Lady Stark before the frivolities really began. Or perhaps that was the reason the drinking really began. Still, it was a safe place. Tiresias kept to his table, sipping ale. Again, never fully trusting himself.

So he ate plenty and drank little, alternating between water and booze. The same strategy Clark used when he was in college.

Tiresias paused, lowering the drink from his lips.

_The same strategy Clark used…since when have I started referring to Clark as another person?_

That thought was interrupted by instruments tuning and the cheers of the whole party. Musicians…well, servants who played with varying degrees of talent, appeared and tables were cleared for dancing.

Gord and Ginn stood up, their height disparity causing a light chuckle to ripple across the crowd. They smiled themselves, not too far gone to skip and dance the first jingle. They looked pleased and content, though not as much as Gord’s mother who sat with happy tears running down her face.

The married couple quickly ended their first dance with a kiss and laughter, as they called on others to join. Seeing that as his cue for an overly long latrine break, Tiresias stood to leave.

Before he could turn however, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He pivoted to see Mal before him.

“Hello Mal,” he said, nodding. “You having a good time?”

“Aye,” she said. Her brown eyes seemed to shine a little brighter. “Dance with me?”

A stern voice from his past told him never to decline a dance request from a young woman. Was it his mother who said that? His sister? A friend? Whoever it was obviously made a strong impression. He nodded without really thinking about it.

“All right.” He took her hand and they walked to the open area. He thanked God that there were already people out there. Of all the things he had studied rigorously in Westeros, dancing was not one of them. However, he’d picked up a few examples here and there. By sight only.

He and Mal placed their hands at the appropriate places.

“I warn you,” he said. “It’s not my strong suit.”

Mal gave a light laugh. “Mine neither.”

A small lump formed in his throat and he swallowed quickly. They counted the beat and began.

It was actually pretty fun. The music wasn’t professional, but it was lively and the ones who danced couldn’t have appreciated it more. Tiresias felt a genuine laugh escape from him more than once. And he heard a few from Mal as well. When was the last time he had danced? Before he came here certainly. That would make it years…

After a couple of minutes and only one apology for toes being stepped on, the song ended. Tiresias gave a short bow to Mal and thanked her. He was about to leave when Ginn pulled him in for the next one. He looked to Gord for help, but the big bastard was only laughing his ass off.

So he danced with Ginn, and then a cook named Maygen, then the scullery maid Hilde, Mal again, and a new servant named Breyna. By the time that was done, he was sweating. He certainly didn’t intend to make up for all the dancing he had missed in one session.

He declined another offer as politely as possible and made his way back to his spot. Deciding the hell with his temperance, he sat and drained his mug, sighing in relief as the ale coursed through him.

He heard the man’s lumbering footsteps before he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder.

“Feeling a little tired there, mate?” said Gord, snickering.

“Mercy, Gord,” he responded. “I can’t muster a dance with you. Not just yet. Give me a few minutes.”

Gord’s snicker turned into a full laugh. The man was drunk but he was still quite lucid.

“I’ll spare you, Tiresias. But I’m not sure these women will. Like bees to a flower.”

“Or flies to shit.”

“Your words.” He took another drink. “But seriously, what’s your secret? Not that I care. I’m a married man now. But the others might.”

Tiresias shrugged. “Everyone’s drunk. Who knows? Maybe the women here have low standards. I bathe and I clean my teeth. All of a sudden, I’m handsome.”

“What? Did the ladies not like you back in Essos?”

He set his empty mug down. The ale was going through him quickly.

“I have to piss. I know it’s your wedding, Gord. Congratulations. But please, end the dancing if you could before I get back.”

Thankfully Gord caught the sardonic tone in his voice and laughed.

“Only way the dancing ends is if we start singing.”

Tiresias walked off, waving that away.

“Fine, fine. Whatever it takes.”

“You’ll regret those words, mate. You will!”

Tiresias went to the latrines. Unfortunately, he opened the door to find that it was not empty. Tadd and Saul were there as well, piss-drunk and pissing drunk. He walked past to a hole a respectful distance away and began to relieve himself.

“Tiresias!”

He turned slightly to see Tadd looking at him.

“Tadd,” he responded lightly.

“Good time tonight?”

He nodded tightly. He hated talking during a bathroom break. He didn’t know how women managed it.

“It’s lovely,” he said, hopefully with some finality. He lowered his eyes to his piss, but Tadd didn’t take the hint.

“Lovely, yes, very lovely,” he slurred from his latrine. “I have a question for yeh, Tiresias…apologies. Not fancy enough...I have an inquiry for you!”

“Yes, Tadd?”

“Which cunny do yeh have ye eye on tonight?”

_Okay, that escalated quickly._

He kept his eyes on his piss. Nearly done.

“None, Tadd. And if I did, that’s none of your concern.”

He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Tadd had finished and was walking toward him, putting his cock away as he did so.

_Thank Christ for small mercies_.

“Well, now,” he slurred. “That’s not very nice. Just curious, mate. I saw yeh…yeh out there…skinny little shit…dancing with all sorts of cunny, small cunt, tall cunt, fat cunt, young cunt, old cunt…”

He was right next to Tiresias’ right. He finished his piss and put himself away before facing Tadd.

“You’re drunk,” he said, resisting the urge to punch Tadd in his eye.

Tadd shrugged. “I am. So’s he.” He pointed to Saul. “Ye fucking point?”

“My point is you should go and sleep this off. Before you say all this out there and ruin the wedding.”

He tried to end the conversation and walked past Tadd, but the soldier reached out and gripped his shoulder. Tiresias clenched and unclenched his hand. No need to strike. He could deescalate this.

“I haven’t…finished me thought…my sentiment,” he said, sniffing his nose. “What about that big word? Yeh like that…yeh smart cunt?”

“I’m not interested in your big words.”

“Well, yeh should be.” He spun Tiresias around, keeping his hand on his shoulder. He grounded himself as he felt Tadd sway.

“Yeh should…yeh should do us all a favor…and just…just pick one. Pick a cunt. Pick the one yeh like and leave the rest for us all…Night’s getting on and we need to…we can only be polite for so long…”

It took Tiresias a minute to realize that he was standing stock still. That he forgot to breathe. That his fists were clenched. That he hadn’t blinked since Tadd had started talking…

“For gods’ sake,” muttered Tadd. “Say the word and Mal will just…lovely little cunt…”

“Take your hand off my shoulder,” said Tiresias, his voice a low murmur. “Now.”

Sobriety briefly surfaced in Tadd’s eyes. The guard started to laugh but it quickly dissipated as he met nothing but silence. Tiresias wasn’t looking to Saul, but he could feel the old man’s discomfort.

Finally, Tadd lifted his hand and backed off, his hands raised in mockery. He kept grinning to no response. Tiresias adjusted his shirt and made sure he was calm before he spoke.

“Don’t ever touch me again. Just go to bed. Now. You bring that shit into Gord and Ginn’s wedding, I’ll beat the living piss out of you.”

He didn’t wait to see Tadd’s response. He turned and walked out of the latrine, breathing heavily. He stopped to wash his hands in a basin. Before he knew it, he was back at his table.

An old woman was singing a ribald song. Tiresias had missed the beginning, but he quickly caught the gist: a farmer with a phallus so enormous, he ended up fainting when all the blood went south. His wife was mostly disappointed by this occurrence, but sometimes she appreciated the breather.

He was too angry to see the sense in it. If there was any to begin with.

But the audience seemed to enjoy it. Ginn's face was beet-red, but she laughed as hard as her husband. Tiresias couldn’t hear any of it. He picked up his mug and drained half of it before putting it down. He forced himself to breathe, calming down.

_This is a wedding. Gord and Ginn’s wedding. Leave what Tadd said in the shitter where it belongs._

He casted an eye back but it seemed like no one else was coming from the latrines. He hoped that Tadd took his threat seriously. He certainly meant it in the moment but that didn’t mean he wanted to bring violence into the wedding feast.

He felt a hand on his arm.

“Are you right, Tiresias?” said Mal. She was sitting right next to him. He didn’t even notice. He nodded quickly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He shrugged. “Just some grief with a drunken house guard.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Tadd?”

He didn’t answer, but she seemed to sense his affirmation.

“Will there be trouble?” she asked.

“I hope not. But I’ll keep an eye out.”

“All right,” she said. “Just don’t do anything rash.”

He turned to the old woman singing. “Do you like the song?”

She laughed. “It’s…well, it’s not something my mother would like me singing.”

“So yes, you like it.”

“Aye.” She smiled as she turned to him. “Aye, I do.”

There was something in her smile that unnerved him. Thankfully the song ended with everyone laughing and cheering as the old woman curtsied. Gord came up and called for quiet.

“All right, all right, who’s next?” he yelled in the night. “Come on, who’s the one who’ll next grace us with their beautiful tones on this beautiful evening?”

He seemed to be answering his own question as he turned his gaze toward Tiresias.

_Oh, you shit son of a bitch…_

“Tiresias! Come on, man! Sing a song,” he called, pointing to him. “And don’t tell me you can’t sing. I’ve heard you before.”

“That’s not for decent people, Gord,” Tiresias hollered back, but he couldn’t help smiling. A few of the other wedding guests were shouting out, edging him on. He felt Mal nudge his arm.

“Come on, you’ll be great,” she said.

Gord came right before him and held out his hand.

“Get the fuck up. It’s my wedding and I demand a song.”

Resigning himself to his fate, he clasped Gord’s hand and stood to applause.

“Is this the price I pay for requesting the dancing to stop?” he muttered to Gord.

“Nah, I was gonna pull you up here regardless.”

“You curdled shitheel,” Tiresias muttered through a smile.

He was brought to the center by Gord and abandoned quickly. All to laughing applause. He swallowed his nerves and faced the wedding couple.

“Ginn, Gord. Would you prefer something silly or something sincere?”

The crowd called out their preference, with most leaning toward silly. He turned back to them and called in mock outrage.

“I asked the bride and groom, not you. It’s their wedding!” He turned back to the couple. "So…what say you?”

Gord turned to Ginn, leaving the choice to her.

“We just had something silly,” she said. “Sing us something else.”

Tiresias stood for a few seconds quietly, thinking about the possibilities. He nodded when he came to his decision.

He walked over to the musicians, to a portly man with a lute.

“May I borrow that please?” he said. The portly man handed it over. “Thank you.”

He didn’t know many songs on the guitar. The trick was to just play the few one knew really well. He hoped that this one transferred over smoothly enough to the lute. He tested a few chords. Good enough. Taking a last swallow, he faced the bride and groom.

“For you, Ginn. For you, Gord.”

He strummed the beginning of the song, trying to think of the countless times he sang this in the car.

_A car? Christ, I haven’t thought about those in months._

“Beside a singing mountain stream   
Where the willow grew

Where the silver leaf of maple  
Sparkled in the morning dew  
I braided twigs of willow  
Made a string of buckeye beads  
But flesh and blood needs flesh and blood  
And you're the one I need  
Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood  
And you're the one I need”

The crowd had quieted at this point. Tiresias continued to play; his spectators forgotten.

“I leaned against a bark of birch  
And I breathed the honey dew  
I saw a North-bound flock of geese  
Against a sky of baby blue  
Beside the lily pads  
I carved a whistle from a reed  
Mother Nature's quite a lady  
But you're the one I need  
Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood  
And you're the one I need.”

He did his best with the guitar solo. Thankfully Cash wasn’t Stevie Ray, but it was still something rusty. Though it was enough to cover him swallowing his spit.

“A cardinal sang just for me  
And I thanked him for the song  
Then the sun went slowly down west  
And I had to move along  
These were some of the things

On which my mind and spirit feed  
But flesh and blood need flesh and blood  
And you're the one I need  
Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood  
And you're the one I need.”

He relaxed his fingers, strumming softly for the end.

“So when the day was ended  
I was still not satisfied  
For I knew everything I touched  
Would wither and would die  
And love is all that will remain  
And grow from all these seeds

Mother Nature's quite a lady  
But you're the one I need  
Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood  
And you're the one I need.”

He finished the song to a quiet audience. Nobody said anything at first. He looked to Gord and Ginn, who sat in silence, holding hands. Finally they smiled and began to clap, which spurned the rest of the wedding party to applause. It wasn’t the teary response that was often reported to accompany Prince Rhaegar. But it was enough.

Taking a slight bow, he returned the lute to the portly player and walked back to his seat.

“Have it in yeh for another, Tiresias?” called Gord. Ginn gave him a light slap, laughing.

“No, I don’t, Gord,” he called back. “I’ll leave that to someone else. And don’t pull that day of my wedding nonsense either. I gave you two enough sincerity for one night.”

Gord waved back and called for the musicians. They began to play again, prompting a few people up to dance. Tiresias sat at his place and sighed.

“Singing a song that tiring?” asked Mal.

He shrugged. “In some regards. Do you sing?”

“Only to myself. I do love the music though.” She smiled at him. “No more songs then. Think I can drag you for another dance then?”

He shook his head, ignoring the firm voice that told Clark to accept all dances. “I’m sorry, Mal. But I’m tired. And I think I’m going to retire soon.”

“Before the bedding? Not going to assist Ginn?”

“Nah. Don’t have it in me to tear your work.” He extended his feet before him. “Your embroidery is lovely.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet.

“All that work too. In just a month. Couldn’t have been easy. Working a needle after serving the Great Hall all evening.”

She shrugged. “It’s not that bad, now that I’m not getting up early anymore to work the kitchens. Carrying pitchers doesn’t hinder me from Mistress Bane’s instruction.”

Mistress Bane was the Winterfell seamstress. Whispers reached the kitchens that she was seeking an apprentice and Mal sought her out immediately. She showed enough promise with the samples from her embroidery hoop. Tiresias saw them himself and they were lovely with even stitches and a subtle creativity.

Gage the cook needed some persuading, but he eventually relinquished Mal from her cooking duties. She only served now in the Great Hall. Meanwhile she had been under Mistress Bane’s stringent instruction for the past seven months.

“Well, it shows. Her dress looks quite nice.” He couldn’t resist a tease. “Though she’s nothing compared to Gord. Handsome devil. How about it? You looking forward to tearing his clothes off?"

“What? No!” She couldn’t stop a blush, but she started laughing. “I'm…I mean it's…it’s not the first time I’ve seen…” Then she saw his face. “Oh shut up.”

Tiresias chuckled. “Well, I’m sure Gord will appreciate the help.”

“Stop it.” She slapped his shoulder. “Gods, you’re terrible.”

“Yep,” he responded simply. More honestly than the conversation warranted. The tone was still teasing, but he couldn’t help the tiny bitterness that slipped in.

Mal picked it up though, facing him at the change. She looked ready to question it when Otis came up to their seats.

“Hello Mal, Tiresias,” he said, nodding quickly to him before turning back to Mal. “Would you care to dance with me, Mal?”

One had to admire Otis. He spoke smoothly enough, though he was blushing furiously. Mal took only a second before responding.

“Aye, Otis, I would.” She took his offered hand and they ventured into the dancing circle. Tiresias raised his mug and drank. This was his last for the evening. Barth had let the barrels sit in the running stream since yesterday to cool them and he could have kissed the man. He felt the delightly chilled brew run down his throat and sighed in relief.

Judging by the footsteps and the multiple congratulations that accompanied them, Tiresias didn’t have to look to know that Gord was coming to his side. The newly wed soldier took Mal’s seat and raised his mug. Tiresias clinked it without a word and they drank together.

“It’s a good wedding, isn’t it?” he asked Tiresias. “I wanted to give her that at least.”

Tiresias shrugged. “I haven’t seen any Westerosi weddings to compare to this.”

_At least, not in person. The weddings I saw in the show though…_

“But this has been a wonderful evening and she looks very happy, so it seems to be a good wedding to me. Well done.” He lowered his voice. “Could have done without me singing though.”

“Ah, shut it. You’ve a good voice and you sing good songs. Strange, but good. Better than any singer we could afford.”

Tiresias snorted. “Glad I could help.”

“Don’t be such a prick.” Gord placed his hand on Tiresias’ shoulder. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a promise: on your wedding day, you can call on me to sing. Ginn will protest. My mother will protest. All those with working ears will protest, but I will do it anyway. 'Cause you’re my friend.”

Tiresias met his eyes.

“How drunk are you, Gord?”

“Not too drunk to make a promise. Or for later tonight when the miss and I are alone.”

“You’re going to terrify your wife.”

He waved that away. “Ginn’s a strong woman. She can handle me.” He took another draught. “Anyway, the promise stands. At your wedding, I shall sing.”

Tiresias gazed into his mug. “I don’t plan on marrying, Gord.”

“Ah, men always say that, but they come around. I did. You just…”

“Gord,” Tiresias interrupted. “I’m not marrying. I can’t.”

It seemed that Gord wasn’t too drunk after all. His eyes focused and he sat up slowly.

“What do you mean you can’t?” He didn’t sound angry. Just worried.

_If I have a wife and then children, how could I possibly affect the future? How could I leave and do unspeakable things, putting myself at risk when I have ones that rely on me at home._

_Besides I’ve seen what happens in this world to people with loved ones. I’m a cipher in this world. No one can hurt me by hurting the ones I love._

He didn’t respond for a while, but Gord waited for him. The man was patient and a good listener. Tiresias almost chuckled. He would make a great husband.

“I would be a terrible husband.”

Gord blinked. “How so? You have a trade. So coin’s not a problem, aye?”

Tiresias didn’t answer, but Gord pressed on.

“Does your cock not work? Can you give a woman children?”

He sighed. “Aye, as far as I know.”

“Do you plan to mistreat your wife? Bed other women? Beat your children?”

“Are the standards really that low?”

Gord shook his head. “Mate, I just don’t understand why.”

“Why do you need to understand? I don’t want to marry. I don’t need a reason why. It wasn’t like that where I came from. We weren’t forced to marry.”

“And now your people are gone.”

Tiresias didn’t respond to that. Gord raised his hands.

“I’m sorry, mate. That was low.”

“I’m not Westerosi, Gord. The North will carry on without me marrying,” he murmured. He wanted to drain the rest of his mug and walk off. However he knew that was childish and so he remained seated. Gord didn’t speak for a bit and they watched the dancing,

“It may have been like that where you came from, Tiresias. But here it’s…” He sighed. “I love Ginn. She’s bright and she’s funny and I feel good around her. But I also married her for selfish reasons. I married her because I know that one day, I’m going to need help.”

Tiresias turned to look at Gord. He had never seen the soldier like this. Gord wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring into some unknown future.

“I’m big and I’m strong. And here, in the North, we protect those who can’t protect themselves, those who are old, young or weak. Because I know that one day, I’m not going to be strong. I’m going to grow weaker and it’ll be someone else who will need to be strong when I am not.”

“That’s idealistic,” muttered Tiresias. Gord waved him off.

“I don’t know what that word means, mate, but here, that’s our truth. My mother continues to live in comfort because I’m there to look after her. What would she do if I wasn’t here? Or a bastard who couldn’t make a name for himself? When Ginn and I have our children, they’ll be able to say, ‘son of Gord’ after their names and that will give them something. Maybe not much. But it will be something.

“And as for you? Who doesn’t want to marry? What’s in your future? Are you gonna just go to the brothel every month? Politely fuck your favorite kindhearted whore?”

“I haven’t been to the brothel in years, Gord.”

“My point still stands, mate. You’re not building anything for yourself. You’ll have no children to care for you. Considering that you don’t get a whore pregnant. And even then, the child couldn’t do much in this world. Not every bastard is as lucky as Jon Snow.”

The music shifted to something soft and leisurely. The dancing slowed into the reverie and Gord’s voice lowered.

“I’m sorry, friend. I only say this out of concern. You’re a good man. And right now, you’re steering yourself to a miserable future if you plan to stay here. Maybe where you came from, you could be happy and comfortable like that. But here, in the North, in Westeros, if you’re no Lord, with no land or servants, you’re only as strong as the people you make family.”

Tiresias had nothing to say to that and Gord seemed to be done. He patted him on the shoulder and rose to return to Ginn. Before he departed though, he turned back.

“But if you truly plan not to marry, you best not lead on Mal any longer. She’s definitely looks to marry and right now, you and her…well, it’s been noticed.”

That made Tiresias look Gord straight in the eye. The big man was deadly serious.

“I haven’t…Gord, I…” he stumbled. “I treat her as I do everyone.”

Gord’s smile was small and almost pitying, as he shook his head. “No, mate. You don’t,” he said quietly.

Tiresias was stunned into silence. Thankfully, Gord seemed to realize that.

“Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, mate,” he said. “You can’t survive here on books and dreams.”

He smiled kindly and patted Tiresias yet again on the shoulder.

“Thank you for singing at my wedding.” And with that, the groom walked off.

A strange feeling came over Tiresias, a feeling he hadn’t felt in ages. A vague memory came to him from Clark, when the boy was in middle school and a girl confessed her crush. He panicked and rejected her and he was cruel in his panic. That shame stayed with him for years before he could forgive himself. If he ever did…

He realized that Mal never came back to her seat. She was sitting with the other maids, gossiping, laughing. He looked at her for a while before he caught himself and averted his eyes. He took a trembling breath. What the hell was wrong with him?

He had always been so stupid about these sorts of things and he couldn’t think straight here. Not anymore. He poured the rest of his ale onto the ground and exited, just as the wedding guests called for the bedding.

Determined not to stare, he ignored the shouts of frivolity and laughter as he left the yard. Knowing that he was way too amped up to sleep, he turned and proceeded to the training yard. Afterall, the rest of the soldiers were at their post or the wedding. The yard should be empty, with enough space to clear his thoughts.

That thought was ill-warranted as it turned out. He instantly knew he was not alone, hearing laughter and groans from around the corner. He turned to see Robb, Theon and Jon by the spear rack. They were gathered by the lit brazier and very, very drunk.

Tiresias stilled and debated what to do. He knew that this warranted punishment. However, he wasn’t in the mood to snitch. He stepped forward, clearing his throat. The boys all jumped, or at least attempted to. Jon Snow could barely rise from the post he was sitting against. Robb and Theon stared back, trying not to sway and failing miserably. Each held a wineskin.

He let the brazier crackle for a minute before speaking.

“Evening, boys,” he said. “Having fun?”

Robb stepped forward. He nodded, a little fitfully.

“Aye,” he slurred. “Very fun…very...much fun.”

_Christ, he’s drunker than Tadd._

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.” He looked to them all, one by one. “Is this your first time drinking?”

Jon nodded, his eyes barely open. Robb considered the question and Theon shook his head, a ludicrous smile on his face.

“I’ve drunk before…with the Iron…Ironborn. Since I was born…the women there…” He looked to be sick for a moment before settling. “Suckled drink out of…the teat…”

He started laughing. Robb joined him without probably knowing what had started it. It just felt good to laugh with your friends in a drunken stupor.

Deciding to be the adult, Tiresias reached out and casually took the skins away from Robb and Theon. It took them a few seconds to notice.

“Hey,” said Theon. “We weren’t…we weren’t finished with those…”

Tiresias walked past them to Jon and knelt down with his hand out. The boy surrendered his half-empty skin. He stood back up.

“I believe you are,” he said. “In fact, I think you hit your limit back with your first skin. Come on. We’re gonna drink some water and then get you to bed.”

“We’re not…we’re not going to bed!” said Theon. He mustered a little focus into his eyes. Up for the fight. “We’re still drinking! And after, we were going to…”

“Theon,” said Robb, his tone warning. Tiresias looked between the two boys, who now looked comically guilty.

“You were what?” he asked. “What were you going to do after you drank these?”

“Go into town,” moaned a voice behind him. He turned to see Jon, his eyes struggling to stay open. “Brot…the brothel…”

Tiresias let the silence sit for a bit, processing that confession. Jon and Robb had just turned thirteen. They still seemed so young to him. But people tended to grow up quicker in this world. He should have guessed…

He turned to Theon and Robb, who trying to stand straight and look betrayed.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said. “Speaking from experience, which believe me, I’m only one here qualified to do, despite what Theon says, you three are in no shape to be with a woman. Actually given your condition, I’d be amazed if you made it halfway through Wintertown.

“So I leave this choice to you; either Lord and Lady Stark discover you three and you are all punished for months on end or you come with me, drink some water and go to bed. Decide now. Because I’m tired and this evening has carried on long enough.”

The silence carried on a little longer than he would have liked. But Jon nodded first and Robb followed suit. Theon didn’t nod, but he could see the forfeit in his eyes.

“All right, then,” he said. He stooped to pick up Jon, supporting him around the shoulders. “Follow me please.”

They proceeded to the kitchen, where Tiresias stored what remained of their wine and sat them down. He watched as they drank at least two full cups of water. The cooks that night worked around them, ignoring the three drunken boys in their midst.

Tiresias then escorted each of the boys to their respective rooms. Jon, first on the lower floor. Then Theon and ending with Robb. He didn’t go inside, instead just warning them to sleep on their side, shutting the door and nodding to each of the posted house guards, every one of whom seemed to wear a shit-eating grin.

By the time Tiresias had returned to his room, he had completely forgotten the wedding, about Gord and Ginn, and Mal and the song he sang. His mind buzzing with what he just witnessed.

It wasn’t just that the three boys had occupied a solid hour and a half of his time. Maybe not for Theon, but this was the first time he’d seen Robb and Jon expressing any desire for a woman. And a part of him was waiting for that carnality to act on another phase of his plan.

Because there was another boy in the North. And he was about the same age as Robb and Jon. He would probably be feeling that carnality as well. Lusting after young women. Except his way of wooing was far more sadistic and cruel than visiting a brothel as a nervous and polite newcomer.

Tiresias lit a fire that night. Never needing one for warmth, it was more ritual than anything else. To focus his mind and energy. He would need every bit he had if he were to venture farther to the north. To the Dreadfort. To see the Bolton bastard to his end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that begins the next mission. Hope you enjoyed it. I'll be back next Tuesday.
> 
> And for those curious, here is a link to the song Tiresias sang.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-CS-OT8Fco


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

There was a drawer in Tiresias’ desk, filled with parchment scraps. These scraps consisted of map drawings and information scribbled down from every source he could find: tomes, scrolls and even gossip. It grew steadily, ill-organized; plaguing Tiresias for the past two years. This drawer was dedicated to the Dreadfort and the bastard that dwelt within.

Over the past month, Tiresias had sat down with these scraps and attempted to organize and condense them. He forwent exercise and even dinner on a few evenings. The threat of Ramsay Snow loomed on his conscious.

Tiresias had made the decision early in his Winterfell residency that he would start on Ramsay around now. He was about the same age as Jon and Robb. As with those two boys, he was probably going through puberty and a whole new world was opening to him. He was already a sadist. Now, he would start to explore his new longings through his sadism.

The only information he had about Ramsay before the show began were the details of his conception and that he enjoyed hunting peasant girls with his dogs. He’d be out in the open, away from the Dreadfort, but he wouldn’t be old enough to be too much of a physical challenge. This was the opportune time to hunt Ramsay down and kill him.

He desperately wanted to make a trip beforehand to ascertain the environment, inquire the locals and concoct a plan that didn’t involve going blindly into the lands of a sociopath lord and his psychotic son. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ask too many questions of those who lived there. Should Lord Bolton or his hunters ever ask around, he would be doomed and so would any who had helped him, even inadvertently. The Boltons still skinned those, whom they thought disloyal.

Although from what he gathered from living in Winterfell these past few years, that wasn’t common knowledge. Roose Bolton, though clearly dangerous to those that knew him, kept the appearance of a law-abiding lord well enough. Flaying remained a secret confined to the dungeons of the Dreadfort, passed on through the generations.

Lord Stark certainly didn’t know this. He didn’t like Roose Bolton personally, but as far as he knew, flaying was banned in the North and the law stood.

That changed a month ago, when Tiresias asked to speak to him privately, joining him on the balconies overlooking the main courtyard…

_“I want you to imagine a scenario, Lord Stark.”_

_They stood out of earshot to anyone, including Ned’s personal guard. To all eyes concerned, they were simply observing the stables. Where Robb, Jon and Theon were working up quite a sweat, cleaning them out. _

_It was a sennight after the wedding and despite Tiresias’ efforts to usher the drunken boys to bed without notice, they were found out. All three looked quite sick at breakfast in the Great Hall the following morning and upon inquiries of their health from Lady Catelyn, Theon responded by being sick in front of her._

_Tiresias arrived in the Great Hall just in time to see the projectile vomit. Never claiming to be a courageous man, he turned and exited immediately. So he didn’t witness their haranguing. He saw them soon after in the yard however and their pained faces were now colored with embarrassment._

_It just so happened that on the same day, Hullen announced a major cleaning and refurbishing of the stables. And before evening came, he had three new workers who had volunteered under the direction of Lord Eddard. Theon, Jon and Robb would be working in the stables until the task was completed. Definitely over a full month. Theon grumbled they would stink of horseshit for much longer afterwards._

_However, the Ironborn continued to shovel and keep his remarks to a minimum. He worked as hard as the other two. Given that he so often glanced up to see the Lord of Winterfell staring down at him, Tiresias supposed that Theon felt at least a little shame at his actions; wanting to be regarded a little higher by his foster guardian._

_Ned looked to Tiresias. “What scenario?”_

_“According to Jeor Mormont, the Night’s Watch has been communicating cautiously with Mance for the past year. Tensions are…well, easing’s the wrong word for it, but they’re talking at least. Talking openly. About the White Walkers. A possible peace. They’re not speaking of the migration. No one’s mentioned coming south yet.”_

_He checked around, but all possible ears were still too far away. He returned to Lord Stark._

_“But when someone does,” he muttered. “It’s gonna cause a shit storm among the Northern lords. We’ve known about this ever since the beginning. Wildlings and crows deciding not to fight? That’s all right. Could always use a little less blood. Despite what Lord Umber says. But when you make the decision to open the gates…”_

_He sighed and ran his hand through his hair._

_“Rebellion,” Ned stated lightly. “It will go beyond my bannermen voicing their opposition, won’t it?”_

_Tiresias nodded and Ned took his turn to sigh._

_“Is that what you saw?” he asked. “My bannermen betraying me?”_

_A cry of disgust came from the yard. They turned to see Robb doubled over laughing. Theon had crossed behind Jon just as the boy turned to toss a shovelful of manure into the pile and had taken the full brunt of it. Jon looked horrified and apologetic while also fighting back his own amusement. Robb had to come between them, practically crying with laughter._

_Another memory of Robb came to Tiresias. His smile gone. His entire head actually, replaced with another one. Tied upright on a horse…_

_As the children grew older and looked more and more like their show counterparts, he often saw the grisly futures that awaited them. It took him by surprise a few times and he had to dismiss himself to regain his composure._

_Thankfully, he didn’t lose any breath over this most recent association. He turned back to Ned, leaving the boys to their manure._

_“I told you when we first met that I would do my best to keep you and your family safe from treachery. Most of the treachery came from outside the North…but there’s one family here that needs to be dealt with._

_“Here’s the scenario I’ll ask you to imagine; the reaction of your bannermen to you announcing of that you'll allow the Free Folk south through the Wall. Anger from the Umbers, concern from the Mormonts, questions from the Manderlys…”_

_He lowered his voice for good measure._

_“How do you think Roose Bolton will react?”_

_Ned didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. And that was answer enough._

_“If all your bannermen were present in the Great Hall as you announce it, he would sit quietly amidst the uproar. Keep his seat, keep his poise. He’d speak at some point; offer some valid concerns. He’ll stay reasonable and at the end, despite the passion from the louder lords, he’ll pledge his support. After all, he is loyal to the Starks._

_“That’s the image he’ll give publicly. As he rides away the next morning, he’s already formed a plan. I can’t say for certain whether or not Roose Bolton had always schemed to betray your family. But he is a man that knows an opportunity when he sees it. And this will be a splendid opportunity. The chaos that will come with the arrival of the Free Folk will lead him to approach other disgruntled lords. Lords that you thought loyal. As for the lords that will reject him, he’ll go for their sons. He’ll insinuate. He’ll water seeds of discontent and eventually you will be targeted. Your family as well.”_

_It took Tiresias a long time to recognize fear in Ned Stark’s eyes. Only after a couple of years at Winterfell was he able to discern it in the grim gaze._

_“So you wish to kill Lord Bolton?” he asked calmly._

_Tiresias shook his head. “No. No, I want to kill his son.”_

_Lord Stark’s grim gaze vanished and was replaced with incredulity. It's been a while since Tiresias had seen that look. He continued._

_“His bastard son, Ramsay. That’s the next one I want to get rid of.”_

_Ned finally found his voice._

_“He can’t be…how old is he?”_

_“No older than Robb or Jon. Probably.”_

_“So, a boy? You wish to kill a boy?”_

_“I do.”_

_He spoke calmly and he could Ned was doing his best to return the favor, though it was difficult. The Lord of Winterfell took a deep breath and locked eyes with him. Tiresias did his best not to crumble at the fire he saw in them._

_“You just spoke of Roose Bolton. It is his treachery that you foresaw, aye?”_

_“That’s right.”_

_“So, why are you targeting his boy?”_

_“Because I want to take Roose’s weapons away from him. Ramsay may be a boy now, but he will grow up to be the most evil man in the North, Bolton’s mad dog. I guarantee you that when Roose begins to move against you, he will bring out Ramsay. I’ve seen the man that boy will grow into, Lord Stark. There’s no one who enjoys the suffering of others more. He’ll revel in torture, rape, mutilation, the worst depravities of man...”_

_He checked his surroundings yet again before continuing._

_“I’ve seen him enact these depravities on members of your family,” he muttered. “I won’t go in detail, but some of your children do cross paths with him. They’ll suffer for it. Dearly.”_

_He didn’t meet Lord Stark’s eyes, but he sensed a heat coming from him. Counting to five, he then continued._

_“Roose Bolton has the capacity to betray you, and he probably will attempt to do so. But he’s also smart and won’t act unless he’s certain he’ll win. Having a mad dog is a good boon, even though he’ll underestimate just how much control he has over Ramsay. But with Ramsay gone and another factor, he’ll probably see that he won’t gain enough allies to topple you, through conspiracy or fear.”_

_“What other factor?” asked Ned._

_“In order for the Northern lords to accept the Free Folk, they need to accept the danger of the White Walkers and that danger can only be conveyed face to face.”_

_Tiresias swallowed his reservations and hoped he was making the right choice._

_“You need evidence.”_

_“What evidence?”_

_“Evidence of a wight. You’ll need to capture a wight beyond the Wall and bring it south. Alive...so to speak. In chains. Screeching to every keep in the North or to Winterfell for a big show. Bring the lords of the North to stare into those blue eyes.”_

_“Can they even be captured?”_

_Clark nodded. “One was. In my vision. Of course, they had a major disadvantage. The Army had already swelled in numbers and an escape was barely possible. The Free Folk are fighting battles in the north. Don’t know how much they’re winning. But they’re still small skirmishes. Get a strong crate to the Wall. Gag a creature and drag it to Castle Black.”_

_He sighed. “It’s risky, I know. But you need a wight. The Northern loyalty to the Stark name won’t stand if you bring wildlings through. You need hard evidence to overcome their animosity.”_

_Ned Stark didn’t say anything for a while. Theon had calmed down enough to walk back into the barn. Robb and Jon continued to shovel, waiting until Theon had disappeared to laugh again. Tiresias and Ned stood quietly, listening to their mirth._

_Finally Ned met his eyes._

_“If you’re caught in his lands, there’ll be nothing I could do to save you. I can’t show support for a child-murderer.”_

_Tiresias nodded. “I figured. As far as anyone’s concerned, it’s my idea alone.”_

_“Can you hold to that? If you’re right about Lord Bolton, he won’t make your imprisonment easy. It will be pain beyond anything you’ve ever felt. Their banner promises it. As do their words.”_

_“Our blades are sharp.”_

_“And they are. Will you hold to your tale? And guarantee that he won’t seek retribution against my family?”_

_He took a second to consider it before nodding. “I’ll hold to it. I’ll play mad. But I’ll say a truth of sorts. That I saw the boy in a dream. And what the boy did. No details about the Starks.”_

_Was that a promise he couldn’t keep? He didn’t know. He’d never been tortured before. And even if Lord Bolton accepted that he was a mad man, he doubted that would buy him a quick death. Would he just rot in the dungeon? For years to come? With no hope of escape or release…_

_There was no need to voice that. He could tell that Lord Stark knew of that possibility as well. He heard it in his voice._

_“Are you prepared for what might happen?” he asked._

_Tiresias sighed. “Honestly no. No one can prepare for that kind of pain. But I’ll resign myself to it if it means that Ramsay Snow won’t be around to plague the North and your children.”_

_That seemed to do it. Ned wasn’t a man who was turned by blind machismo. The Lord of Winterfell sighed himself._

_“Then you have my blessing.”_

_Dread and relief coursed in equal measures through Tiresias. _

_“Thank you.”_

_“Don’t thank me yet. I’ve probably just killed you in the most horrible way.”_

_With that, Ned Stark turned and walked back to the keep, his guards falling behind him. Tiresias was left alone on the balcony with only the wind. A horrible shaking overcame him and it took several minutes to calm himself. He gripped the railing tightly, not letting go until his mask of serenity was secure._

That mask slipped a few times in the last month. He faced inquiries of his health and his temperament from many in the castle; Luwin during his work, Mal during meals, Jon during the spars. He waved them away as best he could.

Ultimately though he did isolate himself as the month went on. Poring over maps of Bolton’s territory; from the Last River down to the White Knife and further to the Sheepshead Hills, he studied the topography and geography as best he could, hoping to avoid asking too many questions of those who lived under the Boltons. He read everything he could about the Dreadfort and the surrounding lands of the Lonely Hills and the Weeping Water river. He tried to put himself in the mind of a sadistic young boy and wondered where a young Ramsay went to begin his hunts.

He wrote a letter to Maester Wolkan, essentially asking for an open invitation to visit the Dreadfort to peruse their library and select possible volumes for Winterfell. He had put off communicating with House Bolton about any donations for the library so that he could have this excuse one day to travel there.

He didn’t specify when he would be coming; explaining he was waiting on some other business to conclude but he requested an open window of time to visit. His raven was returned shortly. Maester Wolkan seemed as friendly as he was in the show and graciously told him to visit whenever the time was convenient.

With that invitation in hand, he prepared for a long absence away from Winterfell. His excursions were common enough that he went through the motions absentminded. He blinked at the end of the day, packed and ready to depart in the morning.

Dinner was subdued that night. He sat silently with Barth and forced himself to eat. Food was hard to swallow. He didn’t approach Ned to say goodbye. He’d already informed Maester Luwin of his departure. Ned already knew and indeed when he stood to depart the Great Hall, he looked to the high table and saw the Warden of the North looking toward him.

A few seconds followed before Ned nodded in dismissal. Tiresias returned the nod and turned, not quite sure when he would return or if he ever would.

As he turned out of the Great Hall, he walked past by Ginn, who said hello. He returned the greeting automatically. As she walked past, he found that he couldn’t move any farther. He stood rooted to the spot, Gord’s words from the wedding running through him.

He had been so preoccupied with Ramsay and the upcoming trek that he had pushed all other concerns to the back of his mind. His work, his training…other things…it had all suffered.

But he could always train again. He could make up the work when he returned. But some things…some things weren’t going to keep. And he had to deal with them before he left.

Coming to, he set off toward the kitchens. Given that it was dinner time, his presence wasn’t too welcome in the busy setting. He approached Gage, cutting through the various trays carrying supper.

“What do you want, Tiresias?” the head cook asked curtly, his eyes still on the table, his fingers dancing quickly to form pie crusts.

“I want to speak to Mal when she comes back from the Great Hall.”

After a few protestations and a guarantee from Tiresias that he wouldn’t detain her from her duties for more than five minutes, Gage promised he would send her out when she returned. Tiresias stepped out of the kitchens and waited by the door.

His eyes travelled upward. Try as he might, no image in the stars completely replaced Orion for him. None could bring the same calm. Tiresias lightly scoffed at himself. Maybe that was his mistake. Looking for the same calm, instead of finding something different. Being satisfied with that.

“Tiresias?”

He jumped slightly and turned to see Mal staring at him. It had been a while since someone had snuck up on him. Mal seemed calm enough, but there was something in her eyes. A gleam that frightened him and excited him all at once. It had been years since he had seen that in a woman’s eyes…

“You wanted to see me?” she prodded.

Tiresias swallowed. “Aye…aye, I did. I…I, um…”

Mal’s eyebrows rose. “Aye?”

He sighed, his eyes falling to the ground. “Forgive me, Mal…I know that you don’t have a lot of time and I should get to the point, but…honestly, I’m trying to find the right words. I…I don’t know what I want to say.”

A silence fell on them. Muffled shouts from the kitchens brought him back and forced him to raise his head. Mal was still there, her brown eyes still on him. Waiting…

He took a breath. “I’m leaving tomorrow, Mal. And I’ll be gone for a few months, maybe half a year.”

She took the information in calmly. “That’s quite a long time to be fetching tomes.”

Not wanting to disclose the true nature of his absence, he nodded. “It is. And I wanted to say that when I return, I would like to speak to you.”

He didn’t think it possible, but her eyebrows rose further.

“So, you wanted to speak to me…” she said. “To tell me that you want to speak to me…later?”

Tiresias nodded. “Aye. As stupid as it sounds, that’s what I wanted to say.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes turning downcast. “And why can’t you say what you want to say now?”

“Because I don’t know what I want.” He sighed. “I can’t speak for it.”

Mal gave a small smirk, her eyes coming back to Tiresias. She was tough, but he could still see the small bit of hurt. He recognized it from a previous life. A possibility thwarted by his own cowardice.

“I hope you have a safe journey. Farewell, Tiresias,” she said, before turning away.

_No…no, not this time._

“Mal,” he called. “Stop, please.”

She did and turned back around. The bit of hurt was gone from her eyes and the gleam was back. A little guarded, but it was back. He stepped forward until he was right in front of her. She stood defiant, not backing away.

For what felt like the millionth time, Tiresias sighed.

“I’m a foreigner. I didn’t have anything here in Westeros or anywhere that I could return. When I came to Winterfell, I felt…lucky that I had employment. That I was surrounded by those who make me forget more and more about my old home, my lost family and all that I was. It’s an emptiness you can’t imagine…and I thought it was enough to have the library, to have shelter, to have friends and charges and responsibilities…and it’s been…well, I didn’t think I would need anything else.”

The kitchen door opened. Maygen leaned out.

“Mal!” she called. “Gage wants you back.”

“I’ll be there in two minutes,” Mal called back, without looking away from Tiresias. “Gage can wait.”

Not looking eager to relay the message, Maygen retreated, dulling the sounds of the kitchen again.

Tiresias swallowed. “I’m sorry, Mal. If I gave any impression that I felt…something more towards you. I’m not of the North, and I was raised to treat everyone well and equally. I didn’t think I was acting on anything more than that.

“But, but…” he spoke quickly, seeing the change in her eyes. “Ever since the…um…”

She raised her eyebrows again. “The wedding?”

“Aye,” he said. He could feel the heat in his face. “Ever since the wedding, when I…Gord and I had a talk and he brought up a few things. Things that should have been obvious to me.”

Another silence fell between him. Despite her calm exterior, Tiresias could sense Mal’s heartrate accelerating. She even smelled different. But she waited for him to break it.

“I’m not leaving tomorrow to run away from whatever’s happening here.” Something clicked into place and his next words came easily. “My work was planned in advance, but I do need the time to think about what I want, and whether it fits with what I need to do.”

“With what you need to do?” Mal questioned. “You’re a librarian…”

“I’m…” Tiresias sighed. “It’s more complicated than that.”

Looking into her face, he was tempted to speak of everything. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not ever. He could only ever give an opaque description. That was for the next conversation.

“It’s not fair of me to ask this.” He wanted more than ever to avert his eyes, but he forced himself to face her. “Unbeknownst to me, you’ve been patient and I’ve been…leading you along without knowing it…and I would like some time to figure out what to do, knowing what I know now. Would you…would you…”

“Give you time?” she filled in. “Til you return?”

Tiresias nodded. “Aye. That.”

Mal lowered her head. “A few months to half a year?”

“If I’m not back by then…well, I don’t know, but I’ll try and be back by then.”

She gave a light chuckle, raising her head. Her brown eyes were full of light.

The kitchen door opened again. “Mal…” called Maygen, her voice desperate.

“All right, all right, I’m coming!” shouted Mal. She turned back to Tiresias and exhaled.

“All right,” she said.

Tiresias nodded. “All right?”

She smiled. “All right.”

True to Maygen, she crossed back to the kitchen, pausing at the threshold to look back before closing the door behind her. Tiresias stood rooted to the ground for a few minutes, wondering just what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

Now full of jitters and a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the fear of being tortured and killed by Roose Bolton, he had to exercise. Arya and Jon were already in the yard.

“Hello, Jon. Hello, Arya,” he called briskly as he entered the yard.

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “Why is your face all red?”

Tiresias exhaled quickly. “Well, Arya, without betraying any secrets, I’ve found that I’m a rusty romantic and I now feel like slapping myself really fucking hard.”

Jon and Arya stared at him. Tiresias crumpled.

“Sorry, that was…that was strange. I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell Lord or Lady Stark about that...about my um...foul language.”

“What foul language?” asked Jon, his eyes full of mirth. “We weren’t in the practice yard to hear any foul language. Certainly not Arya. Right, sister?”

“I'm never here,” said Arya. Both of them looked at each other, holding for a beat before breaking into laughter.

Tiresias grabbed a practice sword. “Aye, of course.”

He let them laugh. It was the least he deserved. He gave the sword a few practice swings becoming walking out to the open area.

“Who’s first?” he called.

He said goodbye to Jon and Arya that night in the yard. The spars were swift and as soon as he worked through the jumble of nerves he had after speaking to Mal, he left. The evening passed quickly for him, like a slim candle and soon he found himself sitting in his room, in front of a fire. Waiting for sleep to overtake him.

His conversation with Mal seemed ages ago, instead of just a couple of hours. Here, alone in his room, where the nightmares happened, where his plots were conceived and planned, the threat of the Dreadfort loomed and his anxiety rose to a fever pitch.

His eyes wandered over to the drawer in his desk. With all the information he obsessed over the past month. Crossing over to the desk, he opened the drawer and extracted every scrap of parchment in the drawer.

It took a while to burn everything sufficiently. He caught any remnants left unscathed and fed them to the flames. No one will come across this obsession in his absence. He honestly shouldn’t have kept it for as long as he did. But it was done now. All clues concerning his future whereabouts were gone. Leaving only an empty drawer.

Well…not entirely empty. After making sure the last bit of parchment was ash, Tiresias pulled a pouch from the back corner. Loosening the strings, he withdrew a small wide-mouth storage jar. He held it up to the firelight, seeing the dark moss in the water within. He’d had it for a little under a year, ever since his excursion to Barrowton…

Dallan had shown him many dangerous substances in the Neck. And there were few he warned more against than the Resting Wisp. It was a moss that grew just above the water line on roots. A healthy, but rather inadequate snack for lizard lions and a few other creatures in the marsh, it was incredibly lethal for humans to consume. Not painful, if one could ignore the smell and taste. Just too much to bear. In short, one must rest upon consuming it and never wake. Hence, the Resting Wisp.

At the end of the day, it was simple enough to trek south of Barrowton and enter the Neck. He was far more prepared for the swamp than the first time he wandered in there. It took two days of wet hiking before he found a growth of the moss. He carefully harvested a little, placing it in the glass container and proceeded out of the Neck.

He stored the moss with a little of the surrounding water. It was still there. He hadn’t cracked the jar since the Neck. He wondered if it was still effective. It should be. Tiresias hoped he wouldn’t get the chance to test it. He almost wished he could leave it behind, if only he could keep his promise to Lord Stark…

_Can you say with absolute certainty that you won’t break? That Bolton won’t pull the truth from you along with your skin? That you won’t betray the Starks in between your screams?_

Tiresias looked in the flames. No, he couldn’t be certain. And so he packed the Resting Wisp deep in his bag. For the most dire of circumstances.

He laid in bed awake for a long time, staring at the shadows as they danced on the ceiling, his stomach clenched, a humming anxiety running through him.

Was there ever a time in this life or the one before when he felt more dread? He couldn’t think of any. Even going beyond the Wall didn’t unnerve him as much as the prospect of meeting those who once ruled as the Red Kings.

* * *

His boots clopped loudly as he hiked north on the Kingsroad. He wasn’t sure if he regretted his decision not to use a wagon for this journey. And not just because he was carrying a decently-sized tome. He just knew that he couldn’t look after a horse for however long this will take.

However, he could have used the imagery of him riding the wagon. Should any questions arise and he be looked at with suspicious eyes, it would have been a boon in his favor; the wandering librarian, Tiresias, couldn’t move through the woods quickly with grace. Tiresias couldn’t have possibly disappeared into the cold wilderness. How could he have with that huge wagon? Where would he have kept that poor horse?

Those questions managed to solidify his decision and so he walked out of Winterfell in the predawn, under the bewildered eyes of Vics and Halford. The nights he wasn’t lucky enough to be near an inn, he spent outside. It wasn’t nearly the chore it was years ago when he ventured beyond the Wall. In the time since, he took every opportunity he had to camp as he wandered the North collecting tomes, to go without food stores on occasion, to force his hand at survival.

He also never turned down an opportunity for a hunt. Though he still never cheered at his kills, the shots and mercy killings became more mechanical. It became easier to ignore the fear in an animal’s dark eyes. His proficiency did not go unnoticed. Eventually the soldiers started following him and his senses without question. Not that he always led them to the best kills. He let many prized animals go on various hunts before the rest of the group even registered them. It was enough for him to know that he could find the creature if he wanted to. To kill it, should he be forced to.

These outdoor activities turned the wilderness into a second home for him. He felt relatively confident that he could walk into any forest in the North and survive for a long time. Assuming he didn’t get too bored. He supposed he would find out in the next few weeks.

He told himself repeatedly that he didn’t come to this survivalist mode of thinking just for Ramsay. It was just good to have the knowledge in any scenario, even if he was back in his old world. However, as the years passed, he couldn’t help but think of the Lonely Hills and how he would manage that hunting ground. He was already scared shitless of the Boltons; his potential torture and mutilation at their hands…

_And rape as well. You’re not above a rape._

Yes, that as well. Torture, mutilation, rape…all potential violations that weighed on his mind…

He didn’t need to be scared of the surrounding lands as well.

It was early in an afternoon when he finally came to the turn that take him east, past the White Knife and eventually the Weeping Water. He paused and stayed at the junction for a few minutes, staring at his hands. Birdsong echoed off the trees.

He looked up and sniffed. It was a lovely day.

Grateful for the brief distraction, he sighed and continued to hike. The Kingsroad disappeared behind him. He didn’t look back .

_If I look back, I am…oh, fuck me._

He laughed loudly, unable to help it. He heard the laughter resonate down the road and he let it. He wouldn’t get many opportunities to laugh freely in the future.

* * *

After he crossed the White Knife, inns and taverns were increasingly infrequent. However, he made a point to stop at every one he found. He tried his best not to distinguish himself from the other guests. He sat in the corner, hardly spoke and listened. He listened for hours, hoping to hear what he needed to hear in order to make this trip worthwhile.

He didn’t though. Most of the locals were silent, punctuated only by the occasional song, the drunken slurring of an ugly farmer or the laughter that could only come from a mean and nasty joke.

Tiresias paid each of his tabs and kept moving eastward, the Lonely Hills beginning to emerge on his left. Even with his eyes, he couldn’t see far into the distance. A blanket of perpetual mist clung to the trees. Sounds carried though. As Tiresias walked, his ears picked up echoes from small game. No screams though. And no hunting dogs.

He carried on, not even sure if he would find what he hoped to in these establishments. Eavesdropping would only get him so far, but approaching these strangers and questioning them would make him familiar and he couldn’t afford to be familiar to anyone.

On the fourth day since the White Knife, he settled into a small tavern for an ale. It was a miserable brew, but it allowed him to disappear. He fell quiet, almost meditative as he opened his ears to the room. A cobbler was trying to sweet talk the tavern girl in seeing him after closing. Two farmers were whispering urgently to each other. A blacksmith chewed noisily. He could smell ironworks on him.

His stew came, a bowl of indistinguishable brown. It looked worrisome but smelled fine.

“Thank ye,” he grumbled as the serving girl scurried away. His Northern accent wasn’t bad, but it still felt strange coming from him. He couldn’t help but feel that he wasn’t fooling anyone. Still as long as he disguised his own voice, it would only be a benefit. A nameless, bearded stranger of the North had to be different from the clean-shaven foreigner, Tiresias.

He would be a fool however, to believe this disguise completely effective. He wasn’t Varys after all. Or a Faceless Man. It just had to be enough.

He ate quietly, still listening to the room. But nothing more came. Finally with his drink gone and his bowl finished, he was ready to move on. However, just as he was ready to get up, the whispering from the two farmers caught his attention.

“…bout ready to march off to Last Hearth, I swear I am!”

“Shut the fuck up, Torren!” whispered the older one urgently. “Lower ye voice. Now.”

“I am, Terrell! I am,” whispered Torren back. “It’s Lord Umber’s land. It belongs to him. If he knew…if they knew…”

“Yeh wouldn’t make it, Torren,” said Terrell sadly. “Yeh’d be killed as soon as yeh step into those hills.”

“I know those hills, Terrell. Grew up next to them, I did. I know ‘em.”

Terrell’s voice fell and Tiresias strained to catch it. “Lord Bolton knows those hills too. Better than ye. Better than Lord Umber. Might as well be his.”

He heard the serving girl just in time. She took his bowl and made to take his mug too, but he caught her hand. He met her wide eyes. A hint of fright in them…

_Best avoid this tavern on the way out. If you find a way out. Can’t disguise the eyes._

“Another,” he muttered. She nodded and disappeared.

He stilled again, focusing on the farmers.

“Barda knew those hills, too” said Torren. He sounded like he was barely containing a sob. “She knew she weren’t supposed to wander there. She wouldn’t’ve. She wouldn’t…”

“Torren, stop. For ye own sake, stop.”

“Yeh believe me, don’t yeh? It weren’t an accident, like the elder said. It weren’t.”

“He’s trying to protect us. To protect yeh.”

The serving girl was back with a pitcher, filling his mug before him. He took a sip without thanking the girl, ignoring the imaginary reprimand for doing so.

“Protect me?” said Torren, his voice hollow. “From wot? He knows it weren’t an accident. There been others, I heard. Kell’s daughter. Her friend disappeared too. Pretty girl. And Alara…”

“Shut it, Torren.” Terrell’s whisper was a quiet tempest.

“She vanished half a year ago. They all were supposed to come back west. Barda…she said…”

“I said shut it,” growled Terrell. And for a bit, it seemed like Torren might listen. The two men fell silent. Resisting the temptation to look, Tiresias could only imagine that they were staring each other down. That, or Torren crumbling as Terrell looked around to make sure they were not overheard.

Tiresias sipped his ale. The brew stung his nostrils awful, but it kept him focused.

“If what happened to those girls,” Terrell said, his voice more gentle than before. “Happened to Barda as well, yeh be best to mourn silently and say nothing. And keep Lauryn and Penny west. Out of sight.”

“Lord…Lord Umber…”

“Lords only care for their own. And what keeps round the Dreadfort…that’s Lord Bolton’s own…”

“And what of me own? Barda…?”

“Dead, me friend. Dead.” He heard Terrell lean forward, the bench slightly creaking. “And if yeh bother a Lord with this, any Lord…the rest of ye brood will follow her.”

A silence fell between the two farmers. Finally giving into temptation, Tiresias glanced in their direction, scratching his shoulder as a cover. Both bearded, Torren’s eyes were locked to his lap, his entire body quivering. Terrell, bald with his remaining hair greyed, eyed him with as much empathy as he could afford.

Which was to say; not much.

Tiresias drank a few more sips, listening a little longer but the men seemed to be done. He didn’t move though until they had exited the tavern themselves. He didn’t want to disrupt the illusion that he was just part of the surroundings.

The serving girl approached him again. He saw the hesitation in her eyes and did nothing to dispel it. Tiresias was genial and kind to others. This stranger was not.

“Another ale…ser?” she added, not quite sure how to address him.

Tiresias made sure the light was drained from his eyes as he focused on her.

“How much dried beef ye got?” he asked, his voice low.

“I…” She thought about it. “Not sure. I’ll ask, but I think we got a few pounds.”

“I’ll take four pounds if ye got it. If ye don’t, I’ll take what ye got. I’m going west and I’m stopping ‘til I’m out of this shithole.”

She nodded vigorously and left immediately. Was that necessary? No, but it would help. If anyone questioned her about a suspect, he will have left a strong impression. And a false trail west.

He stood as she came back with the beef. Taking it from her roughly, he packed it and flipped her a stag. It was certainly more than what he owed. He left before he could see her confused eyes staring at the coin. It was easier to be an asshole than a cheapskate. The girl might be shaken, but she could still eat.

Exiting the inn, he honored his words and turned west, marching back. He planned for this occasion. Every time he had found an inn or a tavern; he backpedaled and hid his quiver and bow. He didn’t need people to see him as an archer. Although if his plan worked…his tenuous, risky plan…no one would ever see how Ramsay died. However it did make for strange travel habits as he came from the west, snuck back, only to come east again ten minutes later. However that wouldn’t be the case this time.

As he came to his hiding spot and fetched the bow and arrows, he thought on the conversation between Torren and Terrell. He timed this well, to his relief. However wishing that no one would have fallen victim to Ramsay Snow, he knew that the boy would be out in the open now and that is where he would strike.

He slung the bow across his back and stepped onto the road. Looking both ways, he saw no one approaching and heard nothing either. The Dreadfort was another four days away on foot. He couldn’t see Ramsay coming out this far out to hunt. He would still be a boy after all. What if he wasn’t alone when he hunted?

That would be a question that he could answer later. He turned back north to the Lonely Hills and the perpetual mist that clung to the trees. Spring was coming slowly to this part of the North. This would be his home for the foreseeable future. He would disappear into these woods. He took a final look down the road. The serving girl at the tavern would be the last one to see the hooded, bearded stranger.

He took a deep breath, held it and then released it, as he began to hike into the forest, making his own path. Making his own way was a slow process, but soon the road disappeared behind him.

Before he got too deep into the hills, he found a small clearing and selected a tree that he could recognize later. He dug a small hole and reached into his rucksack for a bundle. This bundle contained the tome from Castle Black and the letters between Maester Luwin and Wolkan agreeing on the tomes to be donated to the library. It also contained a small armband, a white one with a green escutcheon and a grey direwolf on the front. It would have been rather inconvenient of him to have carried a huge banner with the Stark sigil as he traveled around the North these past few years. So instead, Lord Stark instructed Sansa to embroider the armband. So that he might travel in relative safety. Or at least indicate that he was conducting Winterfell business.

Most of the time he didn’t wear it, only strapping it around his arm as he approached a keep. Wearing it while traveling alone was only announcing oneself for a robbery.

Nevertheless, it was a good idea to bury this armband for now. If he were to be killed or captured with it, while trying to hunt the seemingly-innocent bastard of Lord Bolton, it would be a mess that House Stark couldn’t escape. So it was buried with his library business. As he smoothed the dirt and roughed it again to camouflage it with the forest floor, he was no longer Tiresias, the librarian of Winterfell. He was just a nameless killer.

He hoped he could hold to that under torture. He doubted it though.

_Better reason not to get caught_, he told himself as he stood, hitching the rucksack over his shoulder. The mist was not so strong that it eschewed the sun. Orientating himself, he set off to the northeast. The relief knowing he was right about Ramsay had disappeared. A solid weight had attached itself to his feet. It didn’t lessen as he trudged on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the reaction to the last chapter! Hope you all are staying safe and healthy.
> 
> See you next Tuesday for Chapter 23!


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

He was determined not to lose count of the days. If ever he came out of this, he would need a solid alibi, and those fell apart on shaky information. He repeated his count to himself as he went to sleep and again as he woke. As he walked. As he tracked.

Three sennights of wandering had led Tiresias to a patch of forest that seemed like all others he had seen in the Lonely Hills. But this one…this one had signs. Old signs, sure. It wasn’t like these girls disappeared every sennight. But it was apparent that something malevolent had occurred in this neck of the woods.

Perhaps it was paranoia, but he swore he heard a distant raven caw as he came upon this area. Maybe it spurned him to look closer at the ground, the trees, to sniff a little longer.

He scoured for a long while, trying to keep patient. This mission was going to succeed only if he allowed it to take its time. If he avoided hunters and other travelers, if he searched painstakingly through every part of these godforsaken hills, he would succeed.

At least that's what he told himself at the end of every day, when he settled in for the night. He lit no fires. He wasn’t going to give anyone that advantage. A sennight into these hills, he lightened his step, leaving little imprint on the ground. He buried his feces. When he burrowed for roots and vegetables, he covered up the disturbance. The dried beef that he had been saving was stretched thin.

His stomach growled as he began combing the area. Not a bad area to hunt. He estimated he was only a day’s ride away from the Dreadfort. Not a terrible distance for a young boy to bring a young girl out for a supposed outing in the forest. The son of a lord could be enticing, even if he was a bastard. He could woo. He could charm. The girl wouldn’t know what was happening until it was too late.

When she would start to run…Tiresias’ eyes narrowed as he came to a bush with broken branches. He was in the middle of a natural cul-de-sac, the natural trail he followed led him here. If a young girl ran into here and saw no obvious way out...in her panic, she could hurtle through the bushes, breaking through.

Then again, any hunted and scared animal could do that. Tiresias went to the broken branches and knelt, studying the ground. He couldn’t see any obvious footprints. The last hunt had been too long ago…but the ground did seem to be disturbed. And if only one animal had struggled through, it wouldn’t have perturbed the dirt this much. There were indents that hooves or paws couldn’t make.

_And they certainly wouldn’t leave any cloth behind either…_

Tiresias had missed it the first time he looked, but there was a small figment of fabric hanging from the branches. Either dyed brown or browned by the dirt, he couldn’t tell. And it was obviously torn off, with remnants of threads barely hanging on.

He dropped the cloth and went through the bushes, following the trail as best he could. The disturbed ground continued. Once he saw it, it was impossible to miss. The path led to a series of trees with deep roots that stuck out, making it impossible to run smoothly through. Tiresias halted at the last root, staring down the ditch below.

He jumped down, landing lightly and knelt, his fingers running over the surface. This ground was more disturbed than the previous dirt he had been following. There was even a dark brown that he didn’t recognize at first. Only when he broke the dirt off and brought to his nostrils, did he identify the scent: dried blood. Not a lot, but it was there. He also found more tiny scrapes of cloth, a few strands of long hair and when he looked a little further, dried dog stool.

Standing up, he looked back on the path with the raised roots.

_Whoever was running, being chased…even if they’re surprised by the first root, they automatically begin to jump them. And when they came to this one…_

Sprained ankles. Scrapes. Falling down and hitting their heads. And then the dogs got them.

Maybe not for a few in the future. The ditch was not too deep and should anyone look ahead and anticipate it, they might brace themselves. Keep running. Be a good sport and earn the respect of a young psychopath…

Tiresias shuddered. He knew it was probably a good idea to continue to explore, see if there were any more signs, but he didn’t want to. And he didn’t need to. He had found what he was looking for.

A sudden thought came to his mind.

_What if he comes today?_

He checked the sun and dismissed the thought. If there was a hunting party planned, it would have occurred in the early morning. He suspected so, at least.

_Why would hunting a young girl be different than any other game for young Ramsay?_

A fierce stinging came to his eyes and he had difficulty breathing for a minute. The smells were coming too strongly now that he knew what had happened here. Blood, shit, tears…did tears even have a scent?

He quickly climbed out and walked back, careful to avoid the roots. He sat on the last one, the exhaustion over the past three sennights finally coming over him. He breathed, held it and released, the exhalation coming out in a shudder. Eventually he calmed down.

There was a small robin who sang nearby to the north. Allowing himself a brief reprieve, he sipped some water and chewed an extra sliver of dried beef. A little celebration was in order, even it was a morose one.

And it wouldn’t get easier. The next task was apparent. He had to find the beginning of the chase, where Ramsay set them loose. There was hardly any overcast for the first time in weeks and the sun’s position was easy to spot. The disturbed path ventured to the southeast. He wasn’t surprised. But he had to be even more careful now.

He had to laid his trap carefully and live inconspicuously in this neck of the woods until the bastard came again with another prize. And that could take sennights, perhaps even months. In the meantime, soldiers, hunters, poachers, trappers and all others…no one could see him. He would have to work quietly. At night when no one wandered.

Sitting on a root, he enjoyed the birdsong; savoring it for a few more minutes before standing and getting back to work.

* * *

Tiresias stood, balanced on the branch in the predawn. The trees here made for useful climbing and this was his favorite perch. Before the sun rose, all the surrounding hills were quiet. An offhand noise would echo loudly for him to hear. A mating call from a skylark. A low wind from the east. Or a scream from a young girl.

Nothing he had witnessed in the past month left any doubt in his mind that Ramsay would hunt in the early morning. He had found this perch during the first sennight. At the hour of the wolf, he woke and climbed the tree. He got to know it very well in the dark. With him, he brought his rucksack, tying it to the tree. His weapons laid close; his bow across his back, the dagger in its sheath…

He held vigil every morning in this tree, shielded from hunter’s eyes and gifted with a view that he clung to closely. He had tracked the pathway that the girls were guided to. It went on for a mile, a little over. He guessed right that it began in the southeast. A part of him wanted to go further and see how just far away the Dreadfort actually was. However that was a risk he wasn’t prepared for. What if he was seen? He was waiting in a remote area of the Lonely Hills. Where Ramsay wouldn’t have any witnesses to his violent delights. He hoped for the same advantage when he dealt with the boy himself.

Was that too much to hope? He wondered if Ramsay brought any others with him when he hunted the girls? He was still a young boy after all. Perhaps Roose would be concerned for the safety of his only heir and send along a guard to watch coldly as Ramsay set off his dogs loose. Was that the case?

He turned the question over and over again in his mind for the past month. There honestly wasn’t much else to think about. Besides a pair of brown eyes. And he didn't want her near this part of the North...

In the end, he decided to risk it and assume the boy came alone. There was no reason that Ramsay wouldn’t have known these hills already at his age. If so, he wouldn’t require a guardian. And even if Roose Bolton was fully aware of his bastard’s lethal leisure, would he go so far as to endorse it? Send his guards up with the boy?

He didn’t think so. Ramsay seemed to only hunt with his companions. Reek, the first one, in the novels. Myranda in the show. And he doubted that he would be bringing Myranda along, not for a few more years.

A small part of him knew that this was extremely stupid. He was counting on quite of a number of coincidences for this to come off right. But a stronger part of him kept waiting patiently every morning. He couldn’t really explain it to himself except to say that it smelled right. He was certain. It was the same small certainty that allowed him to meet Karsi, to move against Petyr and to find the long path to Howland when he was Clark and newly arrived in this country. He knew it by the cool breeze in the morning. The pure forestry filling his nostrils. The stale hints of death and fear along the path. Something was going to happen here.

However as the hours passed and the sun came fully into the sky, he accepted that it wouldn’t be this morning. Taking a few more minutes to enjoy the view, he sipped from his waterskin, preparing to climb down and pass the rest of the day.

As he reached for his rucksack though, he heard something. It was faint, but it was definitely not something that he had heard in the past month. And it was coming from the southeast, louder and louder.

He turned his ears toward the coming noise. A dog barked…then another one…before he heard a young scream…

Tiresias’ heart constricted as he breathed, a shudder running through him. He let it pass. He had time. It sounded about a half mile away…little over…

_He’s just a boy, Tiresias. He’s not a man just yet. If he’s alone, if he has no men…you’ll get him._

Maybe he was too hungry and delirious to be scared beyond the Wall, but this was something else. Four seasons of bastardy can leave quite an impression, it seems.

The screams were now more prominent than the dog barks. Coming closer and closer. Sticking to the same path, apparently.

He climbed down a branch and hid behind the other side of the tree, shielded from upward eyes if they looked this way.

_They’ll herd her into the cul-de-sac and force her through in a few minutes. She’ll tripping over the roots soon._

Extracting an arrow, he didn’t nock it, but he kept it close. He didn’t want to close his eyes. Didn’t want to hear any more. Didn’t need any more nightmares.

But he had to. Everything he had, he must use now. Ramsay could not live a day longer in this world. Besides, with what he had to do today to make that happen…there was no escaping fresh nightmares.

He shut his eyes, sniffing and opening his ears. The wind was carrying fresh scents strange to his usual morning here; the stink of dog and sweat. It also carried the screams clearer, the barks, as well as something new…

“You’re almost free, Rosie! Go! Keep running!”

He knew that voice. It may have been a little younger, pitched a little higher…but he knew it.

A frenzied set of footsteps was hurrying into the cul-de-sac, pounding into the forest floor. They stopped and began to pace frantically back and forth. A shriek of desperate frustration echoed through the trees. Tiresias didn’t need his improved ears to hear it.

“Oh nooo…girls!” called the voice. “Rosie seems to be trapped! Is she? Is this the end? Or will she find a way through?”

“P-Please!” sobbed Rosie. “Please, just let me go…please, let me g-go!”

“Not my choice, now, Rosie! The girls are famished. They won’t stop now.”

Rosie was now steadily weeping, her feet staggering as she circled the cul-de-sac. Tiresias gripped his bow.

_Not yet. He needs to come through. He needs to come through._

“Don’t despair, Rosie!” yelled the boy. He was coming closer too. “I’ll help you. Go to the left. Squeeze through the bushes. The path continues!”

Tiresias couldn’t blame the girl as she immediately attack the bushes for that small opening. When they’re the most scared, people will listen to anything that will prolong their life. If they believe that they can still make it. He wondered if Ramsay already knew that before today, or whether he discovered it as he came upon the cul-de-sac and saw the last of Rosie squeezing through the bushes.

He opened his eyes. He didn’t need to hear anything more. Rosie had pushed through and was running his direction. She stumbled over the first root, her cries of pain combining with her petrified sobs. Tiresias crouched down, prepared to move as she drew nearer.

She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, dark-blonde. She didn’t even register him up above her as she ran past him. Her dress was already messy and a little torn. A bark echoed loudly from the bushes, causing her to look back and scream. Her tears shined on her face.

Tiresias heard the dogs come through and continue to chase. Rosie turned back and ran, leaping over the roots. She was coming closer and closer to the ditch.

Someone else squeezed through the bushes as well.

“You’re almost free, Rosie! Keep going! Run!”

Rosie obeyed Ramsay’s instructions to the last. She sped up on the few remaining roots, leaping over the last one with abandon. Tiresias saw her tumble down, her surprised scream ending abruptly with a loud _thump_.

The two dogs streaked past his tree in a frenzy, navigating each root expertly. A rather tall boy with a mop of dark black hair moved forward. He carried a bow with a full quiver and a dirk at his side. Ramsay hurried past his tree, not bothering to look up.

“Rosie? Rosie? Are you there?” called Ramsay, his jog slowing. “Are you all finished, Rosie? So soon? Already?”

The dogs reached the ditch. They leapt down, out of sight, not waiting for the command to feed. Rosie began to scream dully. Tiresias began to climb down as quickly as he could.

“No! No!” yelled Ramsay. He could hear the boy sprinting to the ditch. “Bad dogs! Bad dogs! Heel! Heel!”

Tiresias jumped the last eight feet, wincing at the landing, a little louder than he would have liked. None of the concerned parties seemed to notice though. He gripped his bow and turned onto the path, running quietly after the boy.

Ramsay was at the edge of the ditch now, yelling. The sounds of the dogs’ attack had ceased, though the pained groans continued. He picked up a stone and threw it. One of the dogs yelped.

“Stupid bitch! You couldn’t wait, eh?” he panted. “You don’t eat ‘til I say. Now, look at her. She’s ruined, Barda. You and Alara. You bloodied her before I was ready.”

He spat, shaking his head at the ditch.

“Stupid little bitches…”

Tiresias was thirty feet away now. He didn’t trust his silent feet any further and raised his bow, arrow nocked.

But he didn’t fire, not yet. He had to see…

He swallowed. “Ramsay!” he called.

The boy jumped and turned, looking at Tiresias like he couldn’t quite believe he was there. His pale blue eyes shining with bewilderment.

The same eyes…

Tiresias released. His arrow landed well, despite the small target. Ramsay crumpled to the ground, convulsing as he tried to grip the arrow now stuck in his chest.

A sharp barking began in the ditch. Tiresias reached for two more arrows. He didn’t have much time.

Alara and Barda leapt out of the ditch. One muscled hound paused to sniff Ramsay's jerking body. The other bolted straight for the mysterious assailant, her eyes bright. She was still ready to go, eager to hunt.

Tiresias held for this one. Too compact and agile for a long shot. He waited until he could see the white in her dark eyes and fired. The arrow lodged in her shoulder and she yelped, but continued to move, limping wildly. He dropped the bow and arrow, drawing his dagger.

He barely had it out in front, before she was on him. She landed on the blade, landing only a few scratches before collapsing into dead weight. Throwing her to the side, he saw the other hound beginning to move and the bow was a little farther than he would have liked.

Running to the bow, he realized the dagger was still in the other dog. There was no time though. She was ten feet away when he gripped the bow. He nocked right as she jumped, opening her mouth to bite…

He fired straight into her mouth and she fell, landing at his feet. She still moved though, her mouth biting down jaggedly, trying to remove it from her throat. Heart pounding, he staggered over to the first dead dog to remove the dagger. He walked back over to finish her. He stuck the dagger in and both canines laid still.

He stood, breathing deeply, turning to the end of the path, where Ramsay laid. The boy had gripped his bow and was attempting to nock it, reaching for his quiver.

Tiresias walked over, letting his feet fall heavy on the ground for the first time since entering these hills. He swallowed his sick and came to the boy’s side. He kicked away the quiver and Ramsay looked at him with such loathing.

Wiping his dagger and sheathing it, he knelt down. He reached over the boy’s belt to the dirk. Might as well not leave a wound that matched his own dagger. Ramsay reached over and grabbed his hand in a weak grip. Tiresias removed it gently, holding the boy’s hand, while his other hand withdrew the dirk and held it to Ramsay’s throat.

Ramsay looked between him and the dirk, his young rage now mixed with confusion.

_Focus on the eyes. Without those eyes, he’s just a boy…_

Tiresias exhaled through his nose and pushed the dirk in. Blood pooled onto the dirt. He felt the struggle in Ramsay’s hand drain quickly. He just held on. Finally, the young Snow stilled, his pale blue eyes fixed on his mysterious assassin.

A quiet fell in the forest, punctuated only by birdsong. It was far away though. Tiresias saw his fingers reach over to the boy’s throat. No pulse. It was proof. Proof that he was gone. Along with his empty eyes. He placed his hand over the boy’s mouth and felt no breath.

A low groan emitted from the ditch. He dropped Ramsay’s hand (he actually forgot he had been holding it), and placed his dirk back, wiping it on the boy’s shirt beforehand. He walked to the ditch and stepped in, kneeling next to the young girl.

Rosie stared at him in fear, her whole body shaking, although he suspected that was more due to shock. Her right hand was mangled and bloody. Her left ankle too. There were a few shallow bites at her collar bone too. The dogs did quite a bit with what little time they had.

She swallowed. “Is…is he…?” she asked. Her throat was parched.

“He’s dead. His dogs too.”

Relief swept over her face. The pain didn’t leave though and it made for an odd expression. Something between a laugh and sob echoed out of her.

Tiresias looked back at Ramsay’s body, over the ditch at the dogs, lying still. He turned back to Rosie.

“Did he have any friends with him? Any others following him? Or was it just him and the dogs?”

Rosie shook her head. “Just…just….h-he didn’t have. I s-shouted…when we left…”

Tears streamed down her face. Tiresias ignored the urge to wipe them away.

“They heard m-me…saw me…I-I know they did. B-but they let him t-t-take me…"

Cold ran through him.

_No...no, you don't feel cold._

He knelt next to her. "They saw you with him?"

She nodded and swallowed. “Aye...aye, they...they just...I was alone with him.”

Her crying turned silent. Tiresias just sat and let her weep for several seconds unabated. He eyed her injuries. Even with his limited medical knowledge, he knew that they were not fatal. If he bandaged the bleeding and carried her, a healer could take care of her. She would be scarred for life, but she would live.

As that echoed in his mind, he withdrew the glass container from his pocket and carefully extracted the Resting Wisp. He pulled the moss in half.

_You can’t leave a witness to this._

“Rosie’s your name?”

She nodded, beginning to tremble. He held his hand above her mouth.

“I imagine that you’re in quite a bit of pain, now, Rosie. If you chew this and swallow, it will dull the pain and it won’t hurt so much when I carry you out of here.”

He swallowed a lump in his mouth. “All right?”

She opened her mouth wide as an answer, desperate for any relief. Tiresias took a breath.

“I’m warning you. It tastes awful.”

He placed the moss in gently. He guessed about the taste, going purely off the smell. It was truly awful and Rosie’s eyes instantly watered as her face twisted. She persisted though and after a few seconds, she swallowed.

Knowing she wouldn’t need it soon, he brought his waterskin to her mouth. She drank in earnest, before he lowered the skin.

“It’s going to be a few minutes before it takes effect. Just keep breathing. You’ll feel it soon.”

He stood up. Rosie’s eyes widened again as she shook her head.

“No…” she mumbled, shaking her head jerkily. “D-don’t…don’t leave…me…”

“My pack is back a ways.” He didn’t want to see this. He was too weak. “I’m going to need some bandages. Just keep breathing. Nice and slow. I’ll be back soon.”

He stepped out of the ditch and made it only a few feet past Ramsay before he stilled.

_You fucking goddamn coward._

The preparations were already made. He had time. He owed it to her.

He hesitated for a few seconds more. With a fortifying breath, he continued to walk away, leaving Rosie to die alone.

_Aye…aye, I fucking am._

According to Dallan, the poison is remarkably merciful. Dulling one’s body and mind before shutting it down. Avoiding the pain and the inevitable panic that accompanies death. Rosie would be unconscious before she knew it. He hoped that was true. For Rosie now. Later for him, should he be caught.

Determined to avoid that fate, he got to work. He came to the dogs and extracted the arrows. He managed to save the one in the dog’s shoulder, but the one that shot through the mouth, he couldn’t. He broke the arrow to remove it, deciding to dispose of it a safe distance away.

He climbed the tree and retrieved the rucksack. He took a careful glance at the sun. It was still early in the morning. He was grateful for Ramsay’s timing. Even if an investigating party should be sent from the Dreadfort tonight when the boy didn’t return, he had the whole day to work and get away.

After descending the tree and taking a trembling sip from his waterskin, he knew that enough time had passed. He walked back past the dogs to the bastard by the ditch. He stepped down and knelt next to Rosie.

The girl’s eyes were still and dull. Her panic passed. No fear on her face.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. His utterance rang hollow and he felt stupid immediately.

He reached over and rolled her eyelids down. He didn’t want to see her eyes. Even when dulled, there was something like relief in them. She thought she had been rescued.

_From the hands of someone who would kill you for fun into the hands of those would kill you for who knows what…this one’s on you, Tiresias. She’ll join the hanging whore from Gulltown. It’ll be her glassy eyes underneath that dark red hair…_

It was a surprise to him that he had already stood up. He was too busy focusing on the corpse. He turned away from Rosie, to Ramsay lying above her, at the edge of the ditch. Taking a deep breath, he refocused…as much as he could...

Bending down and picking the boy up, he carried the bastard out of the rooted area. To the next stage of the plan.

This one was different from Petyr. From Craster. From any other future targets. He didn’t want this one to be found. Ramsay would have to disappear. His first plan was a concealed fire. Burn the bastard in the ground beyond all recognition and bury the evidence.

However, he didn’t want to risk it. The Dreadfort would hear of the mysterious smoke in the forest, right where their Lord’s bastard was playing. The fire would probably be too large for one person’s campfire, raising questions about what exactly Lord Bolton’s brood was up to. Soldiers might be sent. Even if the Dreadfort is too far to see the smoke, an outpost would inform them of the irregular activity.

Also he couldn’t risk the roots underneath catching fire, igniting the forest in one giant inferno.

So he simply took out the burning. Which left the burial.

Careful not to trip while carrying the dead sadist, he exited the rooted area and walked another fifteen yards to his great project. Every day, after his morning vigil was complete, he would take a stick and dig. Over the past month in this area, every day, just a little more. He stored the dirt he took carefully, so it didn’t collapse. The hole was now deep enough that he packed himself a little earthen step inside to climb out. Over seven feet deep. He finished it a sennight ago.

He came to the grave and tossed Ramsay in unceremoniously. Not out of anger. He just had to work fast. He climbed in to adjust the body, trying to ignore his hands trembling, trying to ignore that Ramsay’s eyes were not closed and they seemed to follow him…

_He’s dead! _Tiresias told himself furiously. _He’s dead, now quit fucking around. You’re not finished!_

Climbing out, he headed back to the rooted pathway, past Rosie’s still body. The dogs were next.

He picked them up one at a time, lifting them by the legs, careful not to get blood on his clothing. If he dragged them, it would lead any tracker straight to the grave. He deposited the dogs as casually as he did Ramsay; dropping the bodies and jumping in to adjust them.

He wanted to take his time, delay the next task as much as he could. Unfortunately, time was against him. He needed to move.

If it wasn’t for her injuries, Rosie would have looked rather peaceful, sleeping on the forest floor. Resisting the urge to brush the hair from her eyes, he picked her up and carried her gently to the deep grave. There was no lowering her smoothly. She hit the dogs, coming to an awkward position. He climbed in and adjusted her, on her back, hands folded. He climbed out quickly and exhaled, his whole body shaking. He didn’t realize that he was holding his breath down there.

After collecting himself, he turned his gaze down. All concerned were deep enough to avoid the nose of any hunting dog. Rosie looked peaceful again, resting on her bed of canines. Tiresias couldn’t even see Ramsay anymore. But he was there and she would be with him until they both became food for the worms.

Tiresias sighed. He was exhausted and his day wasn’t even halfway done.

“I’m sorry, Rosie,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Before depositing the dirt, he traced their path back all the way back to the natural cul-de-sac and collected all the evidence he could find; fragments of torn cloth, Ramsay’s bow and quiver, even a strand of Rosie’s dark blonde hair. He threw these objects into the grave on top of Rosie.

Finally, after a draught from his waterskin, he began to pile the dirt back into the hole. The dogs disappeared first and then Rosie, her serene face unchanging as she was smothered by the earth. He looked away as he covered the last bit of her. It was too much to watch her disappear.

Pushing the rest of the dirt in was the easy part. Now he had to disguise a very conspicuous part of the forest floor. It was a lot more involved than his first time burying evidence, years ago in the Riverlands. He wondered if any of Clark’s possessions were still intact…

He shook his head, the distraction unwelcomed. He stamped the loose dirt down and used his digging stick to blend the edges with the rest of the forest floor, dragging it back and forth. After ten minutes, it left him with a flat, but very bare ground surface.

He prepared for this though. Walking to the tree cover, he grabbed his cloak and dragged it to the site. Not needing the cloak for warmth, when he started to excavate the grave, he removed the top layer first and placed the plants, leaves and other debris on his cloak for the final phase of the burial. He couldn’t keep everything intact, but there was enough material for his purposes. At least he hoped.

Dressing a grave took longer than he would have liked, but he knew he couldn’t rush this. He deposited the larger materials, replanting some a few weeds and a fern, hoping the roots would take again. Afterwards, he tossed the leaves, needles and sticks on top, trying his damnedest to make it look like an undisturbed floor forest. Not the burial site of the Bastard of the Dreadfort or a young girl named Rosie who vanished into these hills...

Tiresias wished he had never learned her name. He hated Ramsay for shouting it during the chase.

He walked carefully around his work, trying to see it from every angle. Was there anything that would tip off a tracker? Anything that looked constructed?

Maybe, but that was probably due to his own knowledge of what laid beneath. He couldn’t cite anything wrong with it. In fact, it looked…good. As good as he was going to get. Leaving it would be the hardest part. Trusting that it would work.

Based on the sun, it was still well before noon. It was time to take advantage and haul ass. Forcing himself to turn away, he collected his cloak, shaking it free of any remaining debris, folding it for his pack. He returned to the rooted path, where he shouldered his rucksack and hitched the bow across his back.

He took one last look around. Leave no trace. Young Clark learned that in Scouting. It seemed that way here. He never lit a fire. He buried all his waste, actually using the empty grave as a latrine for the past week. All he brought in; he was carrying out.

_Good luck finding him, Roose, you dead-eyed cretin. And your dogs…Rosie, too._

Something came to his throat and he swallowed it back down. He couldn’t be sick here. It was too close. It would clue someone in.

_In on one, two, three, four and hold…one, two, three four and out on one, two, three and four…_

He breathed as such for the next minute. When he settled, he felt light and heavy at the same time and the birdsong seemed louder than before.

With a final fortifying breath, he exited the rooted pathway and began to trek west. He didn’t run, but he definitely didn’t stroll either. Putting as much as space as possible between him and this crime scene was just as important, if not more so, than dressing the grave.

He hiked for the rest of the day, only pausing briefly to refill his waterskin. By sundown, he was confident he had hiked more than twenty miles. He wished he could say with certainty that it was enough for the night, that searchers wouldn’t ride this far. But as he paused and felt his knees buckle, he knew he didn’t have a choice. He had to rest. Trudging to a tree with enough cover, he sat with his back against the trunk.

As his eyes grew heavier, his fingers gripping the hilt of his dagger, he smelled the moisture in the air and thanked his good fortune. When the rain fell, it was light, but it would stay consistent throughout the night. He knew it.

If there was something he felt uneasy about, it was the blood that fell that day. From Ramsay, the dogs. From Rosie. He turned it up with his foot but it was still there. A rainfall would disguise it further. Muddy everything. Including the grave. It would all just be mud.

It wouldn’t touch Tiresias though. He was well-covered by the tree. There was no rain that would hide the tears he would shred that night.

* * *

After two days of hiking, he came to the clearing again. He unearthed the bundle and checked its contents. Both the tome and the letters were well-protected. Once he packed them again, he found a river west. He looked, listened and smelled to confirm that he was truly alone before transforming himself.

For the first time in two and a half months, he wetted his razor and shaved, rinsing the blade in the running water after each stroke. Afterwards, he stripped and washed, using the soap to rid himself of the dirt from his long vigil. As he dressed, he only felt the filth on his clothes more, but that would help him not to look too clean.

After filling his skin, he trekked west for an hour more before turning south. Before he knew it, he was upon the road, west of the last inn before he disappeared. No one was about and he turned west, ready to be done with this part of the North. For now, at least.

_You’re leaving Roose Bolton alive. You don’t know what he’ll do._

That thought weighed on his mind, but he pushed it to the side. He would deal with Roose another day, if he could figure out a way to do so…

But for now, he had enough of death. The image of Rosie disappearing under the dirt came to his mind and he retched. Doubled over, he dry-heaved for a bit, thankful that his stomach was mostly empty for the first time in a while. He had been going on mushrooms for the past two days.

It was after sundown when he came to an inn. It was a small place and he hesitated before he approached. What if he was recognized? What if the innkeeper connected him to the taciturn, bearded stranger from two months ago?

His stomach growled and that was answer enough. He had to eat.

Apparently though he had little to worry about. The innkeeper’s eyes barely glanced at him as he paid. And why should he? He was friendly Tiresias. Friendly, but preferred to be alone. He sat by the fire and tried not to eat too fast. Couldn’t look like he was living off the land before today. He chewed his mutton slowly, his eyes rolling over the other patrons. A farmer and his taller son. A couple of sellswords. A large man sat in the corner. Judging by his smell, he worked as a stone mason.

Nobody spoke in hushed tones. Nobody seemed scared. Nobody seemed to realize that Lord Bolton had lost his bastard mere days ago. The word had not seemed to spread.

For the first time since he fed Rosie the deadly moss, he allowed himself to smile slightly. He could walk out of here unscathed. Especially if they were this late to discover the boy was missing. He might be all right.

* * *

The next morning, he treated himself to an extra hour of sleep and an extra sausage at breakfast. Not so much for a celebration. It was more for additional substance. He was still relatively weak from the poor nutrition in those hills. If only he could have lit a fire just one night, cooked some game…

He shook his head. Determined to have no regrets. About any of it. If he were to make it back to Winterfell, he couldn’t get bogged down with regrets.

He finished his breakfast and walked outside, sniffing the cool morning air. He stood on the inn’s step, taking in the view. It was a grey morning, but there was a stark beauty about it. It was common in the North, even in the territory ruled by its most sociopathic highborn.

Setting his pack down, he stretched, feeling his joints pop. He crossed his arm across his chest and held it, feeling the burn as he gazed east.

His breath hitched. A group of four soldiers on horses were trotting up the road. The back one carried a pink banner with a flayed man.

Tiresias ignored his first instinct; to run and run fast. No, that wouldn’t do at all. He dropped his arm as casually as he could and observed them. They stopped the stonemason from last night as he travelled down the road, all parties coming to a halt.

He couldn’t hear the conversation from the steps of the inn. Not even with his ears, but the stonemason’s shrugs and headshakes were enough for him to intuit. It was now apparent to him that he really needed a reason to be in this area. And in the back of his mind, he knew that the tome and letters would not be enough.

The stonemason pointed to the inn and the soldiers began to trot toward it.

Tiresias stepped from the inn and strode toward the stable, his heart in his throat.

_Walk, damn it. Don’t run. Don’t even walk fast._

He entered the stable, just in time to see the farmer and his son leading a mule from a stall. That will do.

“Hello, there,” he said, stepping to them. The farmer and his son simply stared at him, without saying anything.

“I’ll cut right down to it. I’m assuming you have a wagon or a cart with that mule. Well, I need both. Right now and I’m willing to pay you for them. With good coin.”

The son stared at his father, incredulity in his eyes. The farmer simply stared at Tiresias. The silence dragged on. He could hear the soldiers leaving their horses out front and entering the inn. Thankful for the small mercy, he pressed on.

“I’m in a hurry,” he said. “And I need an animal and transport. If you don’t want it, say so now, so I could inquire further in the inn.”

The expression in the farmer’s face didn’t change. He continued to meet Tiresias’ eyes as he held out his gnarled hand. Tiresias took out his purse and pressed two gold dragons in the farmer’s hand. The son’s eyes widened, but the farmer remained impassive, continuing to stare.

Tiresias sighed and removed another gold dragon from his purse. He held it before the farmer.

“Will this sway your mind?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He was the one with the purse. But he was also all out of dragons…

It made for a long moment. Finally the farmer reached out and took the dragon. He observed the three gold pieces in his palm, before looking to his son and giving a nod. The son trudged over with the mule and handed the reins over.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” said Tiresias. He clicked his tongue and the mule came. It was a gentle creature. He patted his back. Strong too.

“Name’s Marlee.”

He looked back to see the farmer staring at him. “The mule. Marlee’s his name. He’s been fed.”

Tiresias nodded. “I assume his wagon’s the one with the grass hay. His feed?”

The farmer blinked. He supposed that was an affirmative. The son stood more mute than his father. Refused to be made uncomfortable by their silence, he nodded politely and led Marlee out to the wagons.

He tossed his rucksack and bow in the wagon and hitched Marlee with a relative ease. It wasn’t his first time riding with a mule. He was just adjusting the throat lash when he heard the door to the inn open. Hearing the armor clink, he kept his eyes on the wagon, determined to appear relaxed. Though his heart pounded louder and louder, the closer they came.

“You there. What’s your name?”

He swallowed his spit and turned to see the Bolton soldiers. They were on foot, their horses still tied by the inn. They seemed at ease though.

He patted Marlee. “Name’s Tiresias. How can I help you, gentlemen?”

The head soldier stepped forward, his eyes scanning him and the wagon. “What’s your business in these parts?”

“I’m the librarian from Winterfell. I’ve come to transport some tomes there from the Dreadfort.”

“You’re headed to the Dreadfort?”

“Aye.”

One of the men in the back sneezed. Morning fever. The head soldier’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Is Lord Bolton expecting you?”

Tiresias shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t think so. However, Maester Wolkan and I, or rather Maester Luwin of Winterfell, have corresponding for the past year and I've an open invitation to visit the Dreadfort library and review its contents. If I may…”

He gestured to the wagon. “I have a letter from Maester Wolkan. Would you like to read it yourself?”

He stopped a wince as soon as he said that. Years into this world, he forgot that literacy was not widespread. He may have just insulted this soldier deeply. However, he waited calmly, his face growing a little warm. Finally the soldier nodded.

“Let’s see it.”

Tiresias reached over and pulled the rucksack out, careful not to make any sudden movements. He pulled out the folded letter and handed it to the head soldier, who immediately passed it to the sneezing man in the back.

“Rawls,” he stated, the silent order well understood. Rawls opened the letter and began to read, his eyes furrowed in concentration. The head soldier continued to regard him. Tiresias resisted the urge to smile friendly.

_Just wait patiently. You’re all right._

“How long you been travelling?” asked the head soldier.

Tiresias shrugged. “Hard to say. Couple of months, at least. I visited the Wall first. Trekked down here. That was no small journey. I passed the White Knife two days ago.”

It was only two days to the White Knife from here. He knew that, but that was by foot. What was the time by wagon…?

Too late to second guess it now. It was already out. The head soldier didn’t react either way.

Rawls finally lifted his head and handed to the letter back to his command. “It’s as he says, Captain.”

The captain handed the letter back. Tiresias folded it and placed it back in the rucksack. The captain nodded.

“Safe travels,” he stated, before walking off. Tiresias tossed the rucksack back on the wagon, before calling out to him.

“Excuse me, Captain,” he called. “Just to confirm; I’m only five days out from the Dreadfort, aye?”

The captain didn’t turn back around to shout. “Aye, five days! Keep to the road.”

He and the rest of the soldiers unhitched their horses, mounted them and kicked them into a trot. The damp ground squelched as they turned onto the road, heading west. Not a single one gave Tiresias a second look.

He stood with the reins in his hands. Finally he shook himself and climbed aboard. Clicking his tongue, he led Marlee to the road before pulling the reins, halting him. He looked to the west. He could still see the soldiers trotting in the distance. They paused before an old woman and conversed with her as well.

The west was out. He had stated to multiple Bolton soldiers that he was in the area, that he intended to visit the Dreadfort. That captain had a good memory. He could tell. The quick escape he dreamed of was gone.

He gritted his teeth, his breath hissing as he exhaled.

“Shit.”

The mule was patient and let him stew, shaking his head to ward off the flies. However, Tiresias knew he couldn’t dawdle.

He clicked his tongue and turned the wagon east.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, readers! Thank you for your response to the last chapter. I'll see you next Tuesday for Ch. 24!
> 
> In the meantime, stay safe.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Note to User Vyoom: I was going to respond to your comment last night, but I was lizard-brained and tired and accidently deleted it instead. Sorry about that, but thank you for the comment. It was very kind!

Tiresias couldn’t remember the exterior of the Dreadfort from the show. He had studied a few renderings in the Winterfell library. But as with the Wall, it did little to prepare him when he rounded a bend in the Weeping Water one morning and saw the fortress for himself.

He exhaled quickly. “That’s a damn big castle, Marlee,” he muttered to his traveling companion. He had taken to speaking to the mule more than he anticipated. It was rather lonely, spending most of two months in the hills

Marlee took it in stride, just continuing on the path, leaving Tiresias plenty of time to stare.

Winterfell covered much more ground, but the walls of the Dreadfort stood taller. Even he would have a difficult time scaling it. Should it come to anything of the sort. The stones of the fortress looked almost black. It didn’t seem that they had been cleaned for years. The merlons on top seemed sharper than usual, like teeth.

His eyes wandered to the foot of the Dreadfort. He wondered how deep the dungeons were, whether any unfortunate soul was currently on the rack.

He shook his head. He couldn’t think of that. He just had to get in, get some tomes and get out. All with a casual air.

_Yeah…nothing more casual than pretending to be casual…_

Thankfully, he joined a throng of people heading toward the Dreadfort. The crowd gave him something to observe. Keep his mind off the dungeons. And his trembling hands.

It was the time of harvest. One of hopefully many during this long summer. All the keeps in the North were stocking up and the Dreadfort was no exception. Everyone around him were either carrying or carting measured bundles to the fortress. No one gave him a second look. He came to a line of people in front and pulled Marlee to a gentle halt. Climbing down, he took the reins in hand and led him slowly forward as each person was checked at the gates.

Finally it was his turn. He pulled Marlee forward to the head guard.

“Your business?”

“Here to see Maester Wolkan. Picking up some tomes for delivery.”

The head guard glanced at Marlee. “Need a whole wagon for that?”

“Have you carried more than two tomes for over a mile? Without damaging them? Or dropping them? May not be heavy, but they’re certainly awkward. Besides...” Tiresias looked back and shrugged. “It’s not that big of a wagon.”

The guard looked bored already and waved him in. “All right, all right, move on. Stables to your left.”

Tiresias clicked his tongue and led Marlee forward, walking voluntarily into the Dreadfort. Something he thought he would never do.

The courtyard looked like most other courtyards he’d seen in his travels. It was still muddy from the rain a week ago. But it looked organized enough. The smallfolk stood with their bundles ready. He heard swords clang nearby in the exercise yard and smelled the ironworks from the forges.

The only off-putting thing about this courtyard was the mood. He wasn’t sure whether it was because he knew the Bolton disposition and what laid beneath this castle, but at Winterfell, there were smiles in the yard. There was laughter. Here…here, there were guarded faces.

_I also suppose it’s not good form to smile when the Lord’s son is missing…_

The stable was easy to find. He halted Marlee in front and a man came out. He had a very pockmarked face.

“You’re the horsemaster?” he asked. The man nodded, giving Marlee a look. “Aye, I know. Not a horse. But he could use some water and feed.”

The horsemaster nodded, taking the reins and patting Marlee gently. Tiresias sighed internally. At least he was kind to the animals.

“Will he be needin’ a stall for tonite?” asked the horsemaster.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Tiresias, lifting his rucksack out of the wagon. “I’ll be leaving this afternoon.”

“Be better if he’d rest proper,” said the horsemaster, unhitching Marlee from the wagon.

“I agree,” said Tiresias, shrugging. “But I’m afraid I must leave. Schedule to keep and all.”

The horsemaster grunted in response. Once Marlee was situated, Tiresias helped push the wagon into the holding area.

“Thank you,” said Tiresias, as he exited the stables. The horsemaster grunted, already taking another horse out to saddle. “Do you know where I can find Maester Wolkan?”

The horsemaster looked back to the stables and gave the sharpest whistle Tiresias ever heard. It pierced his ears.

“Sy! Come here!” he shouted.

A small boy with dark hair came out of the stables, holding a brush. He had only one eye.

“Put that down. Take this man to the maester and come back right after.”

“Aye,” said the lad. He fixed his eye on Tiresias and pointed off to his left. “It’s this way.”

Tiresias followed the boy farther into the Dreadfort. As they walked out of the courtyard and into the corridors, he began to sense eyes following him. From maids, guards, and workers. They weren’t ignoring him like the other smallfolk. He doubted there were many newcomers to the Dreadfort, those that would walk its halls.

It took a few minutes, but eventually the boy stopped in front of a door at the end of a hall. He turned and stared at Tiresias.

“This ‘un,” he stated, before running back. Eager to get back to the stables before he was punished. Tiresias watched him disappear, before turning back to the door.

Hoping that Maester Wolkan was as amiable as he was on the show, he raised his hand and knocked.

“Come in,” called a voice. Tiresias opened the door.

Wolkan’s chancery was situated in the corner of the Dreadfort, his window facing the Weeping Water. A lovely view from a terrible place. But Tiresias sensed this was a calm room, filled with many tomes, maps and other items of learning. The desk was cluttered in a good way and Maester Wolkan looked up from his letter, quill in hand.

“Maester Wolkan?”

Wolkan nodded, gazing at Tiresias, trying to place him. He lowered his quill.

“That is me,” he said, warily. “And you are…”

“My name is Tiresias.”

“Tiresias…” murmured Wolkan. His eyes widened in recognition. “The librarian from Winterfell?”

“Aye,” said Tiresias, nodding. “I took advantage of your open invitation.” He gestured to the hallway. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“Well, it’s…no, no, it’s not a bad time,” said Maester Wolkan, standing up. “Come in, come in. Shut the door, please.”

Tiresias did so. Wolkan came around and shook his hand.

“Welcome to the Dreadfort, Tiresias.” He meant it too. “You must be tired from the journey. Sit, please.”

“Thank you.” Tiresias took the offered seat as Wolkan sat back down.

“So, you’re here for tomes?”

Tiresias shrugged. “Only a few and only what Lord Bolton and you are willing to donate. Maester Luwin and I aren't seeking to ransack the libraries of Lord Stark’s bannermen.”

“No, no. ‘Course not,” said Wolkan, shaking his head. He picked up his quill. “Well, I need to finish these timber orders before Lord Bolton’s return. But that should only be a few minutes…”

Tiresias cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’m sorry. Lord Bolton is not here?”

“Oh no. Lord Bolton is currently away. He has been for the past four nights.”

Relief and dread bubbled up in equal measures for Tiresias. He had a pretty good idea why Roose Bolton was currently absent. Where Wolkan now sat, he saw Ramsay’s eyes widened before he shot him. Rosie disappearing in the dirt.

It was a struggle to keep his face neutral.

“I see,” he muttered.

“However, he should be back this afternoon,” said Wolkan, his eyes down. He wrote rapidly. “You should be able to see him tonight at supper, should you wish. He tends to dine alone, but he does familiarize himself with his guests.”

“That won’t be necessary, Maester. I’ll be gone before long.”

Wolkan looked up. “Are you not staying the night?”

He shook his head. “Not planning on it. I just wanted to retrieve the tomes and leave. I’ve been long enough away from Winterfell as it is.”

The maester looked disappointed. “Well, I should say that it will take longer than a few hours for a sufficient audit of the library. Had I earlier notice of your arrival, I could have set aside more that would interest you. As of now, I’m afraid…”

“Maester Wolkan,” interrupted Tiresias. He made sure to keep his tone light. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been perusing Northern libraries for years. I know the one in Winterfell better than anyone. Should there any wanted tomes in your library, with your help, we’ll find them quickly. I’m very good at sniffing out what I want.”

He hoped he didn’t sound too dickish. The man was only trying to help after all. And he had spent nights in other keeps before. It wasn’t unusual. But this was the Dreadfort and he wanted to be out before Roose came home.

_When the chickens came home to Roose…oh shut the hell up and focus!_

Wolkan nodded. “If you said so. I suppose, with my help…all right.” He picked up his quill again and finished the order. “Have you had lunch yet, Tiresias?”

Tiresias shook his head. “Didn’t even have breakfast.”

“Well, it’s not quite midday, but that shouldn’t matter.” He placed his quill down and laid the order down to dry, before standing. “How about you join me for a midday meal and then we’ll head to the library together?”

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Tiresias gave a small smile. “Sounds lovely.”

The great hall was dim and smoky, with the rafters turned black from the ongoing fires. It took everything Tiresias had not to start coughing. The smells were overwhelming in this place. Wolkan sat opposite him and asked him questions about the library, which tomes he had received from which houses and more. He seemed genuinely excited for the project.

Tiresias indulged him. He couldn’t imagine that the maester had anyone here he could speak tomes with. At the same time, he answered with no more than what was possible and asked the maester questions in return, about his education, the Citadel and how he came to the North. He learned quickly though that the maester was guarded as well when it came to the secrets of the Dreadfort. Wolkan’s eyes shielded over when he inquired about the Lord’s absence. And Tiresias didn’t push it.

It was a relief when the meal came, served by a silent young woman with anxious eyes. She scanned Tiresias briefly, but scurried off as he nodded at her in thanks.

_I’d be scared too if I were a young woman in this place…hell, I’m scared now regardless…_

They ate in silence. Tiresias finished his pie and ale quickly, but Wolkan was a slow eater. He resisted the urge to tap his foot and waited as nonchalantly as he could.

Finally, Wolkan drained the last of his mug. He eyed Tiresias’ empty plate.

“Forgive me,” he said, standing. “I tend to eat slowly.”

Tiresias smiled as he stood. “Not at all. Shall we?”

Wolkan’s chain clinked as he walked, echoing in the hallways. Tiresias still swore they were eyes following him. Finally, the maester opened a door and they entered the library.

The room was small, but the shelves were quite full. High windows streamed minimal light into the room, leading Wolkan to build the fire back up again. After it was blazing, he stood and turned back to Tiresias.

“I pulled a few tomes about a fortnight ago,” he said. “If you wish to sit, I’ll bring them over.”

Wolkan disappeared behind a shelf, but Tiresias remained standing. He reached behind his back and touched his dagger’s hilt. Still there. He knew Wolkan was no threat, but it comforted him.

The maester returned with a stack of three volumes.

“These are the histories of the North that the Dreadfort is willing to part with. At least I’m told this one is a historical account as well.” He tapped the first one. “However, as it is in the Old Tongue, I’m afraid I can’t confirm that.”

Tiresias opened the volume and scanned the first page, his finger running gently along the symbols.

“Can you read the Old Tongue?” 

“Aye,” murmured Tiresias, his eyes still on the page. “I’m not fluent, but I understand the majority of it.”

“Fascinating…”

Tiresias straightened up. “You were right. This is an historical accounting of the Marsh Kings, leading up to…”

He flipped the book to the end, scanning the last page. “The marriage to King Rickard Stark and their annexation.”

Closing the book, he turned to the maester. “The Winterfell library, however, is well-stocked when it comes to Northern history. I don’t feel right taking this volume, especially given its age and condition. It’s rather fragile.”

Wolkan seemed a little relieved and they continued onto the next volume, which thankfully was in the Common Tongue. They quickly went through the few volumes that Wolkan had already pulled for his arrival. So instead, Wolkan inquired which subjects the Winterfell library was lacking and he fetched whichever volumes he thought would fill that void.

Tiresias had no idea how much time had passed. The day was overcast and cast no shadows from the high windows. But he knew that he was running out of time. He and the maester had set aside a tome detailing the agricultural trades between the southern kingdoms before Aegon’s Conquest. However, besides that, Tiresias would leave the Dreadfort rather empty-handed.

He turned to the maester and asked, he hoped offhandedly.

“I remembered, now that the Winterfell library is rather lacking in the fields of natural studies, the sciences. I’m curious, Maester Wolkan, do you have such a section?”

The maester seemed to stiffen a little, but he smiled immediately afterwards.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll bring a few appropriate tomes.”

Tiresias actually followed him to the row, standing there as Wolkan pulled about four volumes from the shelf. He seemed surprised to see Tiresias standing there, giving him a quick nod as he squeezed past. Tiresias, however, wasn’t ready to return to the table quite yet.

He walked to the section, running his fingers over the tomes. He’d heard rumors. He simply wondered…

His finger brushed a covering that felt different than the others. Bracing himself, he pulled it out gently, raised it to his nose and sniffed.

It smelled strange, but familiar. As he brushed his hand across the front, it confirmed it. This tome was bound in human skin.

It was old too. Certainly not a recent job. He was disgusted to find a small part of him admiring the craftmanship. It was dyed and preserved, to seem like any other leathered volume.

He carried the tome back, opening it and turning the pages softly. Wolkan was opening the tomes and scanning them. He had already set aside one when Tiresias returned to the table, setting the human-skinned tome down. Determined to remain casual, he flipped through the pages, his fingers brushing the leathered skin.

_Who the hell were you?_ He wondered, not reading the page at all. _Did you ever think you would end up protecting a book?_

Once he finally focused on the words and images, he realized that it detailed the human muscular system. Many of the images were studies that seemed far too realistic…

He supposed they could have been drawn from cadavers…but he doubted it.

“You’ve quite a number of tomes here on anatomy, Maester Wolkan.”

Wolkan peered over the table. Tiresias swore he saw him suppress a tremble.

“Ah, indeed, we do.” He turned to Tiresias. “That volume, I’m afraid, is not quite fit for transportation. It’s quite old. However, this volume here…”

He set a rather large one on top of the southern trading accounts. “Is more than able to leave with you. However, if Winterfell is in need of more works concerning the natural studies, I’m sure we could find suitable material that the Dreadfort could part with. If you would only give me time to confer with Lord Bolton.”

“He’s still out though, aye?”

“As far as I am aware. I’ve not heard the horns announcing his return.”

Tiresias closed the tome and forced a smile on his face.

“That won’t be necessary.” He gathered the offered volume on natural studies, as well as the southern trading accounts. “These two will do for the time being. If Lord Stark or any in Winterfell express any further interest in additional tomes, we can revisit the matter.”

Maester Wolkan frowned through his polite nods.

“Still, it’s unfortunate to ride so far for only two volumes and you have a wagon. I’m sure Lord Bolton wouldn’t mind parting with additional tomes. The reinvigorated library is a noble endeavor. If you would care to wait…”

“I’m sorry, Maester Wolkan,” said Tiresias. He packed the volumes in the bag gently, trying not to sound too clipped. “But as you said the journey is quite long and I should get going.”

He reached out his hand.

“Thank you, Maester Wolkan. For your help and hospitality.”

Wolkan took his hand and shook it, the genuine warmth still present.

“Of course, Tiresias. Please, allow me to escort you out. Make sure you’re well-supplied for your journey back to Winterfell.”

Tiresias nodded and walked calmly in-step with Wolkan as they exited the library and made their way to the stables. The horsemaster couldn’t bring out the mule just yet as he wasn’t done eating. So Tiresias set the tomes on the wagon, leaving him nothing to do but wait for the mule.

Maester Wolkan sent for supplies from the kitchens. Tiresias stared at the yard and forced himself to remain calm. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to run but he couldn’t do it. He felt the presence of the dungeons underneath the castle. The rack where Theon was bound and tortured…

_Just breathe…One, two, three…_

He felt light-headed. Blinking furiously, he brought himself back to focus just as Marlee was being led out. Maester Wolkan was directing a stablehand with a sack.

“There you go,” he said, as the sack of supplies landed on the wagon. “That should keep you comfortable until Winterfell.”

Tiresias smiled, the muscles in his face felt quite tight.

“Aye, thank you,” he said. “It’s really too kind of you.”

“Nonsense,” said Wolkan merrily. “Lord Bolton would be furious if we let an envoy of House Stark go without adequate provisions. As soon as the mule is reined, you’ll be set.”

But at that moment, a horn from the high tower pierced the chilled air and Tiresias’ stomach dropped.

_Oh shit._

“Ah, that should be Lord Bolton now,” said Wolkan. He didn’t sound necessarily cheerful about it.

Tiresias nodded and turned his face away from the yard, from those that scurried to make ready for the arrival of their Lord.

_No fear, Tiresias. No fear. You will be calm. You’ll defer. You’ll get out of this._

Once he was certain that his face was neutral, he walked back to the front of the wagon and climbed up. The horsemaster was hurrying now to strap in Marlee, knowing that he would have to service Lord Bolton soon. He didn’t even look twice at Tiresias as he threw him the reins.

He turned back to Wolkan, giving him a final nod before clicking his tongue lightly. The wagon moved forward slowly in the bustling yard and he came to a stop off the side of the front gate. He would have to wait until the entire retinue had passed.

A guard shouted from the top.

“Open the gate!”

The last servant cleared away before the gates opened and the horses trotted through. He recognized Roose Bolton immediately, who led the retinue. He passed without a glance to him and Tiresias breathed. He realized that he was gripping the reins too tightly and forced himself to relax.

Roose Bolton dismounted from his horse and was greeted by Maester Wolkan. Tiresias looked back toward the gate as the rest of the horses came through. All in all, it looked like over thirty men. He heard the horses slowing to a walk before they entered. And he had to wait for them all to pass…

_Come on…come on, you bastards. Just get through so I can…_

He didn’t dare look to his left to where he last saw Roose. There were only a few more left. But the men already in the courtyard were all dismounting and it was crowded, slowing everything down.

He breathed slowly through his nose.

_Just one or two more…come on, come on._

Finally there was a gap and the guard looked to him expectantly.

“You going through? It’s clear now.”

Tiresias nodded, trying not to sigh in relief. He clicked his tongue and the wagon began to move.

“Hold on! Tiresias, hold!”

That was Maester Wolkan’s voice and pretending not to hear him would be incredibly stupid. He halted the wagon and turned to see Maester Wolkan coming toward him. Roose Bolton was in the middle of the yard, his piercing eyes on him.

_Fuck._

Wolkan came up to his wagon. He lowered his eyes to meet the maester’s.

“Lord Bolton wishes to speak to you.”

Tiresias swallowed as discretely as he could before speaking.

“Really?” He looked up to see Roose still looking at him. The Lord’s face was quite impassive. “Is there an issue with the tomes?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Tiresias. He just called.”

Tiresias nodded. “Well, then. Suppose I better go.”

He tied the reins and hopped down. Walking over to Roose, he wondered about the proper etiquette for this scenario. Whether it would be better to meet the eyes or not. As a foreigner, as a librarian, as a suspect…

_Shut up, Tiresias. Just see what he wants._

He decided to meet the eyes and adopted the most neutral expression he possibly could. When he was near enough, he stopped and inclined his head.

“Lord Bolton.”

Roose’s eyes were grey, pale and quite calm. They scanned Tiresias easily.

“Your name is Tiresias, yes?”

He nodded. “That’s right, my lord. Tiresias, the librarian of Winterfell.”

“I see,” Roose said. “Well, it’s good to finally meet the foreigner who’s been traversing the North, collecting our books. I hope Maester Wolkan was helpful in that regard.”

Desperate for an opportunity to check his surroundings, Tiresias turned to Wolkan and nodded.

“He was quite helpful. And you, Lord Bolton, I should thank you for the donations. I tried not to be too greedy.”

A few curious eyes, but nothing nefarious. The guards were focused on Roose, but they didn’t seem on edge. He turned back to the pale lord.

“Think nothing of it,” said Roose softly. “If the Starks need assistance, my house is only too happy to offer it.”

“Indeed,” Tiresias said. He hoped the next sentence wasn’t too desperate. “I’ll be sure to pass on the message to Lord Stark.”

“You’re leaving now?” asked Roose, the slightest lift in his voice.

_Shit._

“I’m an efficient traveler, Lord Bolton. Sooner I’m back in Winterfell, the better.”

“It’s late afternoon, Tiresias. Not the best time at all for a departure. And if those clouds are any indication, you’ll be besieged by rain within the hour. Best to wait until the morning to set out. You are, of course, welcome to stay the night.”

Tiresias looked at the clouds. Roose was right. No man of sound mind would depart in this weather. To leave now would look suspicious. Like he needed to leave immediately. To flee.

He turned back to Roose.

“I wouldn’t want to take advantage, Lord Bolton. You and your house have been most kind already. I’m willing to find other accommodations. Spare you the trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Tiresias. It’s always an honor and a pleasure to host a man of House Stark.”

_God fucking damn it..._

He smiled and inclined his head again.

“Thank you, Lord Bolton. In that case, I’ll be honored to accept your invitation.”

_Time to look relieved, Tiresias. You have shelter. In an ancient fortress. You need to be relaxed._

“May I shake your hand, Lord Bolton?”

For the first time, Roose paused before he spoke. That was the only indication of his perplexion.

“Shake my hand?”

“Forgive me. As you said, I am a foreigner and I don’t know the precise rules of engagement between a high lord and a mere librarian such as myself. But in my land, handshakes were suitable across multiple stations. I simply wanted to thank you for allowing me to stay the night.”

Roose hesitated again, but only slightly. His grey eyes were still calm.

“It’s not commonplace. However…”

He extended his hand and Tiresias shook it. There was no machismo deathgrip from the Bolton lord. He was actually surprisingly gentle.

Afterwards, Roose nodded to the wagon.

“You’ll want to get your things from the wagon, I’d imagine. Afterwards, my steward will show you your room for the night.”

“Thank you.”

Roose met him again with the pale eyes.

“And of course, you must join me for dinner. We’ll eat in three hours.”

For what felt like the millionth time today, Tiresias nodded.

“Of course. Thank you, my lord. I look forward to it.”

With that, Roose turned and left, his guard following. Tiresias had to stop himself from sighing. He turned quickly to fetch his rucksack. No sense in standing stupidly in the middle of the yard.

It wasn’t a useful thought but as he grabbed his rucksack, he went over Roose’s voice. It was just as delightful as it was in the show. That didn’t cheer him at all.

* * *

Tiresias stood by the fire in the dining hall. Well, the private dining hall. Unlike in Winterfell, where the Starks ate in the Great Hall with other members of the household, it seemed that Roose preferred the privacy of this small chamber. The only other occupant was the manservant who stood silently by the door.

Rain was falling steadily outside. As Roose predicted. He tried to listen to it, to let him calm him. Ignore the anger that this delay caused…

He sighed minutely. Even without the rain, he wouldn’t have gotten out of this. He knew that a man with a wagon attempting to leave in the late afternoon was strange. No inn was near enough to travel to before dark. Suggesting finding other accommodations was just foolish. He just didn’t want to spend the night here…

_Well, too bad. You’re here and under slightly more suspicious circumstances. Now eat, make conversation but not too much and leave in the morning. You can do it._

Footsteps were approaching from the hallway. He counted three sets. He turned to see the manservant open the door just as Roose Bolton entered with two house guards.

“Thank you for joining me, Tiresias.” His low voice rumbled through the chamber. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long?”

“Not at all, my lord,” he said, striding to the table. Roose, already at his chair, gestured for him to sit.

“Before we begin,” said Roose, who remained standing. “Something which slipped my mind in the courtyard.”

He nodded to the manservant, who disappeared and returned a moment later. He carried a tray to the table and set it down in front of Tiresias. There was a goblet, a small loaf of bread and a serving cup of salt.

Tiresias raised his eyes to see Roose peering at him closely.

“Guest right?”

“A formality. I assure you that you have been a welcome guest since you’ve entered the castle.” He nodded toward the tray.

_Formality…right._

The manservant returned to pour wine into his goblet. It seemed to glow crimson in the firelight.

Tiresias tore off a piece of the bread. “I appreciate it.” 

He dipped the bread in the wine before sprinkling it with salt. He chewed it slowly, well aware of the eyes watching him. He nodded to Roose.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” said Roose, sitting down himself. “Now we can eat.”

The dour upkeep of the Dreadfort didn’t do much to raise Tiresias’ expectations of the culinary skills here. However his expectations were surpassed, which he supposed shouldn’t have been a surprise. Roose may be a sociopath, but he was still a lord. He would eat well enough in this world.

His bread and salt were replaced by sausages and seasoned potatoes. Roose was served the same. He savored his first bite. Dinner sitting at a table always seemed luxurious after traveling and camping for nights on end. It was almost worth the company.

The first bite went down easily as the manservant poured water into Roose’s cup.

“Excuse me,” he said to the manservant, after he was done pouring. “May I have some water as well please?”

“Is the wine not to your liking?” asked Roose.

Tiresias shook his head. “The wine is lovely, my lord. But I don’t like to drink the night before I travel. Road’s bumpy enough without a hangover.”

A full cup of water was placed before him. He brought it to his mouth, sneaking a quick sniff before sipping. Nothing but water in the cup. At least not what he could smell.

“And you, Lord Bolton?” he asked, placing the cup down. “Do you not drink wine?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Dulls the senses?”

The light in Roose’s eyes seemed to sharpen after that and Tiresias had to force himself not to wince.

_That was a damn stupid thing to say, man._

After an eternal second, Roose nodded.

“Indeed, it does. Thankfully I’ve never cared for the taste.”

“Lucky you.” Tiresias raised his cup. “I’m sure it’s bad luck to toast without ale or wine, but you seem like a brave man. May I? I promise I’ll be brief.”

He wondered if Roose would go for it. After all, it was very awkward to toast with only two people. With three silent onlookers, no less.

Finally, Roose raised his cup, never breaking eye contact. Tiresias swallowed some spit.

“To you, Lord Bolton. To your hospitality and your generous donation to the library in Winterfell. I certainly can’t speak for them, but I’m sure that the Starks send their regards and wish you well.”

They both drank silently and returned to their meals. Tiresias had to slow down his bites. He must be calm. He must be relaxed. Must ignore the guards by the door and the weapons they bore…

“I’m curious,” said Roose, as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “How did you come to be the librarian at Winterfell?”

“Through the crannogmen, on Lord Reed’s recommendation,” Tiresias responded. The truth was always the best lie. “Friend from the Neck, I found him when I arrived in Westeros. Told him I needed work. He was meeting Lord Reed at the time and passed on my request. Nothing for me in the Neck, but he vouched for me and sent me along to Winterfell. Lord Stark read his letter and that was that.”

He sliced off more of the sausage. Forced himself to chew.

“Where are you from?” asked Roose. “I’ve never heard…”

“This accent before?” Tiresias finished his sentence, plastering a smile on his face. “If I had a copper star for every time I heard that question…”

Roose didn’t return the smile. Tiresias sighed.

“My people were nomads, but we stuck mainly to the bays up north in Essos. The Shivering Sea. Came back to Lorath frequently.”

“And where did you meet your crannog friend in Essos?”

“The ship here. From Pentos.” He shrugged. “Didn’t ask why he was in Pentos. Didn’t know crannogs from regular Westerosi. Just liked his company.”

Annag’s words came back to him. Still fresh after so many years. Her warning.

_Don’t fuck up with a lie you can’t hold, Tiresias. Take another bite. It’s just a light dinner._

Roose went back to his food, seemingly content. Tiresias didn’t buy it. There was too much focus in the pale lord. He needed to change the conversation.

“I must admit, Lord Bolton,” he said, taking a sip. “It’s a little strange to be in the Dreadfort, after a few years in Winterfell.”

“Your meaning?”

“Well, I’ve read quite a bit about the North in that time. Librarian and all. You and the Starks have some rather contentious history.”

He raised his hands as Roose fixed him with a stare.

“Apologies. Not you, of course. Not now, but back then. It seems your respective families had their fair share of tiffs.”

“Tiffs?”

He covered his mouth to shield his chewing. “Troubles. But that’s all in the past now. The last rebellion was over a thousand years ago, or do I have the date wrong?”

Roose put his fork down and leaned back. “I’m afraid I don’t know the precise year. Seems correct enough.”

That was a lie. A well-hidden one, but a lie nonetheless.

“A common fallacy in record-keeping, even here in Westeros,” said Tiresias, taking a sip of water. “Your maesters can’t seem to agree on dates when it comes to the ancient happenings. The last Red King, Rogar Bolton, the Huntsman, he submitted to House Stark with the Coming of the Andals, aye? Well, when did the Andal invasion begin? Some say six thousand years ago. _True History _says four thousand years ago, but a few maesters like Maester Denestan; he’s gone rogue and claimed it was only two thousand years ago. Frankly, that sounds a little insane to me, but I’m no historian. Perhaps, and forgive me for asking, do you know when Rogar the Huntsman lived? By any chance? I can see the Dreadfort containing that bit of knowledge more than I can the Citadel.”

Roose’s eyes were dulled over. That tangent had the desired affect and Lord Bolton was bored with his guest. With any luck, dinner would end quickly and quietly, with an early departure in the morning a lot more certain.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” he said. “I’m sure that Maester Wolkan could find an estimation or figure somewhere. I’ll have him send his findings to Winterfell if you’re so curious about the matter.”

“That would be appreciated, thank you. But only if he has the time.”

He bent down over his plate, returning to his meal. After a few bites, he realized he was the only one eating. He looked up to see Roose leaned back in his chair, his eyes resting on the fire.

Tiresias swallowed. “Excuse me, Lord Bolton. Are you not hungry?”

Roose pushed his plate away.

“I’m afraid not, Tiresias,” he sighed. He nodded to the manservant, who came and removed the half-finished meal promptly.

Tiresias put down his own fork.

“If you don’t mind me asking; is something the matter, my Lord?” he probed gently.

Lord Bolton took a sip of water, the flames reflected in his pale eyes.

“My son is missing, Tiresias. He has been for near a fortnight. I’ve just returned from the search party. And I’m afraid we’ve been unsuccessful so far.”

Expecting that answer didn’t make hearing it any easier. Tiresias fought to keep his face appropriate for the occasion. Sympathetic. Surprised. And just a little curious.

“My sympathies, my Lord,” he muttered softly. The rain seemed to the hit the window a little harder. He let the moment continue before asking the follow-up question.

“Pardon me, Lord Bolton,” he said. Roose’s eyes traveled back to him, waiting. “But your son? I read your lineage a year prior, along with the other Northern lords, and I didn’t see any children.”

“Ramsay is my bastard,” Roose answered. He didn’t seem offended, but he didn’t offer any further explanation. Tiresias nodded.

“Well, my sympathies regardless. I hope you find him.”

“I’m sure we will.” The Lord’s voice was now so soft it barely traveled over the crackle of the fire. “We have ruled these lands as long as the Starks have ruled theirs. We know it well. And my kennelmaster, Ben, breeds excellent hounds. Ramsay will be found, I’m certain of it.”

He picked up his goblet, peering into it.

“Though at this point...I’m more willing to believe a corpse will come through that gate in place of my son.”

He sipped his water and silence reigned again. Tiresias cleared his throat.

“A corpse, my lord? Do you suspect foulplay?”

Lord Bolton peered at him for a few seconds longer than he was comfortable with. Finally he answered.

“There is no evidence of such.” He sighed, leaning back into his chair. “However, if he merely suffered an accident and fell broken on the forest floor, my men would have found him by now. At least the two dogs he left with would have returned. But our hounds and hunters have found nothing so far and Ramsay has been safe in those hills alone before. The complete absence of anything...it does make one believe…horrible things.”

At this point, Tiresias knew he couldn’t change the conversation at this point. It was too abrupt. He nodded casually and speared another sausage.

“That does seem strange,” he agreed, chewing his meat to buy some time. After he swallowed, he spoke again. “The hills…Would those be the Lonely Hills? To the northwest? Or the Sheepshead to the south?”

“You’re quite familiar with our lands.”

Tiresias shrugged. “Only from looking at a map. Although I’m afraid I must be confused. I thought the Lonely Hills belonged to the Umbers.”

“They do. However, we have an informal arrangement with House Umber. They don’t venture often in the southern part of those hills. As the Dreadfort lies far nearer to that territory, they have allowed us essentially rule over the south Hills.”

“That’s generous of them.” Tiresias leaned back in his chair. “Did Ramsay often go there?”

Roose took another sip of water before he responded. “Yes. Eleven days ago, he was seen entering those hills by my house guard. That was the last time he was sighted.”

Quickly debating the intelligence, or lack thereof, of his next sentence, Tiresias plunged ahead.

“I heard things about the Lonely Hills. On my way here.”

His eyes were down on his plate, but he swore he felt Lord Bolton’s eyes brighten. His voice remained casual though.

“Indeed? What did you hear?”

Tiresias met his eyes. They actually were a little brighter.

“Just that a couple of girls had disappeared in there.”

It was subtle, but Tiresias could see it. The slightest flare of the nostrils. The pale eyes dulling to conceal. Over by the door, he heard one of the houseguards tightened his grip on his spear.

Determined not to turn the mood even more suspicious, Tiresias lowered his eyes to his plate for the last bites of his sausage and mash.

“That’s quite distressing to hear,” said Roose, his voice soft again. “Where did you hear this?”

Tiresias shrugged. “At an inn, east of Long Lake. Didn’t catch the name of the town. Wasn’t much of one, to be frank.”

“I don’t suppose you would know the names of those spoke of these young girls?”

Tiresias shook his head.

“I wouldn’t. Sitting behind me and they were strangers. Just heard enough to avoid the Lonely Hills and whatever was taking those girls. Wasn’t planning to venture there anyway, but that sealed it.”

He placed his fork and knife down, his meal finished.

“A wise decision,” said Lord Bolton.

“Not sure I’d say that, my Lord. Not the worst idea to keep to the road.”

“Indeed. Would you care for more to eat?”

Tiresias raised his hand, shaking his head. “You’re kind to offer, Lord Bolton, but no thank you. I’m quite full and you’ve been more than generous already.”

“Not at all.”

Tiresias straightened. “I mean it, my Lord. Especially at such a hard time, it was more than I expected when I came here to fetch a few books.”

For the first time that evening, something of a smile appeared on Roose’s face.

“It’s no difficulty, to host a mere librarian. I do apologize, however, for the dour nature of the conversation. I am worried about my son, but you are a guest and not inclined to hear such subjects.”

Tiresias almost laughed at the mere librarian line. Right now, he was tensing up trying not to tense up. He shook his head.

“Please do not apologize, my Lord. Missing a son is quite distressing, to say the least and I’m more than willing to converse on the topic if that should give you any relief.”

Roose sighed quietly. Despite being quite collected, Tiresias could clearly see his exhaustion.

“Relief,” he muttered, nodding. “That would be much desired. Speaking of, did you wish to retreat to your chamber?”

“I wouldn’t mind heading to bed early, my Lord.”

Lord Bolton stood, the chair’s creaks echoing in the small room. “Then I’ll let Willard escort you to your chambers and say goodnight and farewell to you here. I won’t see you in the morning when you depart.”

Tiresias stood as well. “Good night, my Lord. Thank you again.”

He inclined his head, turning to the manservant, Willard. He was halfway to the door when Roose called to him.

“Before you retire, Tiresias, I wanted to ask…”

Fighting not to fidget his fingers, Tiresias turned back to the Bolton Lord, silhouetted by the fire.

“When did you leave Winterfell? To travel here?”

Multiple nights of whispering in the dark, practicing his answers, finally came to use. His answer came in what he hoped was a casual and truthful tone.

“About two months and a sennight. Give or take a day or two.”

“That’s quite a slow travel from Winterfell.”

Tiresias nodded in agreement.

“That would be the case had I come straight here. I rode up to the Wall beforehand. To the Nightfort. To scour for tomes.”

Roose’s face was inscrutable.

“I wouldn’t think there would be any tomes at an abandoned fort at the Wall.”

Tiresias laughed softly. “That’s what most people believe. However, when places are abandoned, tomes are generally left and forgotten. People take food and cloth. Scavengers scour for gold and treasure. Tomes, stories…they’re quite undervalued. Left to collect dust and filth. It’s not the treasure that many seek.”

“I see…and did you find such treasures at the Nightfort, Tiresias?”

“Not as many as I would have liked, my Lord. Just one tome. Seems to be some historical accounting of the Night’s Watch in the Old Tongue. I’m looking forward to properly translating it when I’m back in Winterfell.”

Roose continued to look him and Tiresias returned the favor. However, unlike Roose, he blinked freely, determined to not to turn this into a contest. Plus, he read somewhere that staring contests were for amateurs.

Where had he read that?

Finally, Lord Bolton nodded. “I see. Good night, Tiresias. Have a safe journey back to Winterfell.”

Tiresias inclined his head a final time before following Willard out of the room. He could feel Roose’s eyes on his back until the door was shut behind him.

Willard was silent as he led Tiresias through the torch-lit halls. Tiresias could hear his heart pounding. Could Willard hear it as well? Was it echoing down the stone corridors?

Finally Willard halted before his guest quarters and opened the door for him. Tiresias entered and Willard bowed, before closing the door.

He half-expected to hear the dock lock and realize that he was lured into a trap. But that didn’t happen. He only heard Willard’s light patter as he walked away. He turned to the small room, to his rucksack on the desk where he had left it. Striding toward it, he lifted it gently trying to see if anything was out of place. It didn’t seem so. Everything was as he left it. There was just something unfamiliar that he couldn’t nail down…

He sniffed the rucksack. A little different…perhaps. Did that confirm it? Did someone search his room when he was at dinner?

It didn’t help that he knew that there was a torture dungeon below him. That was clearly influencing his thinking. He wondered if there was anyone there now.

The thought definitely affected his impression of that dinner. Did Roose suspect him? Was he just fishing? Was he lying about not finding Ramsay? He buried the bastard deep. Did the dogs find it? Was the dressing not enough?

His heart was still racing. He took the chair by the desk and leaned it against the door, bracing it. He sat back on the bed, staring at it. It wouldn’t hold, he knew that. But they couldn’t sneak into his room while he slept. He would hear the ramming if they forced the door down…

His fingers curled around the small jar in his pocket. He still had half of the Resting Wisp. More than enough.

_You always have this out. They can’t hurt you when you’re dead._

He breathed slowly, invoking his mother’s technique. At the end of a long minute, he chuckled. He wish he knew what he found slightly amusing...

Taking off his boots, he laid down on top of the covers. If he had to go quickly, he didn’t want to fight the blankets half-asleep. He blew out the candle, but didn’t go to sleep right away. His eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly and they gazed from the searched rucksack to the propped chair against the door.

Admittedly he couldn’t be certain that his belongings were searched. But he smelled something in this room. He didn’t see anything though and that concerned him greatly. If whoever searched his room was able to do so without leaving any visible clue behind, then Roose Bolton had access to very dangerous men. Or women. He supposed that he couldn’t even relax in front of the maids in this place.

He hadn’t prayed in years, even before he came to Westeros. But as he drifted off, he begged silently from every deity he could remember to let him wake up and leave the Dreadfort without any trouble the following morning. He couldn’t be sure if any of them answered. The pounding rain was his only response.

_Perhaps you’d deserve it if you woke up strapped to the rack like Theon. After what you did to Rosie... _

He eyed the door in the dark, the image of Theon Greyjoy strapped to that rack burning in his mind.

_Maybe…but I don’t want to be tortured. I know that much. I’m still going to try and get out of here._

The sound of the pounding rain seemed to lessen. He wasn’t sure if he would sleep this night. He didn’t know if he should.

* * *

However, he did sleep. Pretty well surprisingly. He woke early and saw gray light seeping into the room from the window. The chair was still propped against the door. No one had disturbed his slumber.

A rooster signaled the dawn from the yard. He sat up and grabbed his boots, trying to focus. The fear so absent as he slept was coming back in full. If Roose had any plans to try and keep him in the Dreadfort, he’ll discover them pretty soon. He gathered all his belongings, accounting for everything before he faced the door.

He hesitated before removing the chair.

_Once I move this, I’ll have no protection. Even with what I was gifted, it won’t be enough to fight my way out of here._

His hands trembled and he let them. Once he was in the open, there could be no shaking hands. He was a guest. He had to walk like one.

Setting his shoulders, he went forward and removed the chair, setting it back at the desk. He pressed his ear against the door, listening. It seemed that no one was outside his door. He creaked the door open and confirmed that, peering out into the empty corridor.

He steeled himself, set his face to neutral and walked out.

The courtyard was beginning to come to life. He kept everyone he passed in his periphery. No one seemed to be looking back at him. A few curious glances, but everyone seemed content to ignore him. That did nothing to calm him. In fact, his heart was pounded harder by the time he entered the stables.

The horsemaster was already there, brushing a steed down. He nodded to Tiresias as he recognized him.

“Here to try again?”

Tiresias took a second to flatten the tremble in his voice before he spoke.

“Aye. Figured I’d get an early start. Try and make up for some time.”

The pockmarked horsemaster placed the brush down and gave his piercing whistle to the stablehand in the back, who rushed to fetch Marlee from his stall.

The man turned back to Tiresias.

“Didn’t expect you this early though. Break your fast?”

Tiresias shook his head. “Not hungry.”

“Well, you will be. Come midday.” The horsemaster nodded to the back of the courtyard. “We won’t be ready for ten minutes. Fifteen even. After you check the wagon, why don’t you fetch some grub for the road? Kitchen just opened.”

Well aware that he had already protested Bolton hospitality quite a few times, Tiresias bite back the retort he felt coming and merely nodded.

He checked the wagon. Everything was still in place and the wheels were sound. He stored his rucksack aboard before he traveled to the kitchens. He gathered fresh bread, a few apples and smoked salmon.

The kitchen girl who fetched his food didn’t meet his eyes. He glanced around the kitchen. Nobody did. He reminded himself that no one met his eyes here. At least not the women. It wasn’t suspicious. They weren’t planning anything. He wouldn’t be seized in the courtyard when he returned. Dragged down to the dungeons…

He shook his head, getting himself out of the downward spiral.

_You need to keep it together, Tiresias. Come on, man. Just get through those gates. Get on the road. You can do it._

Thanking the girl for the food, he left the kitchen and walked back to the stables. The courtyard did seem more crowded than it was ten minutes ago. Still, no one gave him a second look.

He came to the entrance of the stables. His wagon was ready, Marlee in place. He climbed aboard, placing the food in the back. The horsemaster was already back inside, continuing to groom the steed. He nodded to Tiresias in farewell and Tiresias returned the gesture.

He stretched one last time, raising his arms above his head, trying to covertly see if anyone was watching him. No one was. Not that he could see.

Taking the reins, he clicked his tongue. The wagon proceeded gently to the gate. Two house guards peered at him unblinkingly as he approached. Tiresias halted Marlee and nodded.

“Mornin’,” he said. The guards nodded.

The unasked question hung in the air for a couple of seconds.

_Will you two open this gate? Will I realize I’m a prisoner shortly?”_

Finally, the guards walked to the gate and creaked it open. Tiresias had to stop himself from grinning. He clicked his tongue.

“Thank you,” he called, as the wagon rolled through. He received no response, except for the gate creaking shut behind him. He resisted the urge to look up at the battlements. He imagined a group of cross-bows firing upon him as he rode away.

He drove the wagon for a solid ten minutes before he dared to look back. The Dreadfort was tiny in the distance. Roose Bolton couldn’t see him at this range. Not with his pale eyes.

Checking around and verifying that he was truly alone on the road, he began to laugh quietly, smiling to himself. He felt his hands trembling and he let them. All of the nerves that he had suppressed for the past day were coming out in full. He even felt tears rolled down his cheeks without even crying.

It took a few moments for this to pass. Marlee pulled the cart completely unabated during this release and he was thankful. He adjusted his grip on the reins and regained control. He rode silently for the rest of the day and though he was calmer than he thought possible, there was still something that kept him looking back, checking the road behind him.

In those quiet moments, he could still hear his heart pounding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right readers! He's away from the Dreadfort. I'm excited for Ch. 25 next Tuesday!
> 
> Until then, continue to be safe!


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

A dense fog had clouded the road west for the past three days. It slowed the wagon significantly as Tiresias didn’t wish for Marlee to step into a ditch and break a leg. What should have been a fortnight journey to the Kingsroad would now be near a month at this pace. Tiresias could only hope that it would clear eventually. He had just arrived at the end of the Lonely Hills, which seemed to hold the fog in an unnatural way.

He found himself halfway wishing for this cover a month ago when he met the bastard. A shiver always seemed to follow that thought.

It had been a sennight since he had left the Dreadfort. He didn’t sleep with one eye open; his stomach didn’t jump with every approaching rider. However, on the occasions when he reached back for a snack from his supplies or a sip of water from his skin, he risked a glance at the road behind him.

His glances yielded no fruit. He caught no followers and saw nothing that would give a normal traveler pause. But Tiresias was not a normal traveler and this paranoia led them to stay at inns more so than he would have otherwise. The door to his rooms provided, at least, some resistance and he figured that if he did have some unwanted guests, they would have a harder time sneaking up on him than if he was outdoors.

Marlee rolled into an inn early that evening. Normally he would have kept going. There was still a little light left. However he knew the next inn was farther along, past the White Knife, and he wouldn’t reach it until the following night.

Once Marlee was stabled and the wagon stored, he entered to settle his bill. As fond as he was growing of Marlee, the damn donkey was draining his purse quicker than he had intended. He counted his remaining coins with a worry he hadn’t felt since he first woke in the Riverlands.

_It's your fault, being paranoid. It’s no charge to camp out in the woods._

_Aye, then you could be a frugal corpse. You have enough. Now calm down._

Tiresias exhaled. It was true. He had saved his coin carefully for the past couple of years. Maybe Renei did him a favor, telling him not to return to her. He was wealthier for it.

He chuckled lightly. That was the first time in months he had thought on Renei. He overheard a couple of guards bemoaning that she had left Wintertown. Disappeared off the face of the earth. Maybe she was Clare again. A young widow in her family’s cottage…

He wished her well, but didn’t regret her absence. Honestly he didn’t dwell on her much. For the past two months, when he wasn’t busy hunting the boy with pale blue eyes, he was thinking of the young woman with bright brown ones…

Tiresias shook his head. He still didn’t know what to say to her. Two months of hiding hadn’t changed that. Whether or not he could actually have a relationship with all that was coming. Besides, spending his alone time preparing to kill a young boy didn’t make romantic musings any easier.

_And certainly not killing an innocent girl either. Do you deserve anyone after that?_

He sighed. He certainly didn’t know and he couldn’t think clearly in this place. Maybe when he made it onto the Kingsroad, heading south. When he wasn’t looking over his shoulder constantly. When he was out of Bolton’s reach…

The early evening passed surprisingly quickly and based on the smells from downstairs, it was time for whatever passed for dinner in these poor small Northern inns.

It wasn’t too bad. Sure, the meat was cooked to where it had no flavor, but then again, that also meant no bad flavor. It was just substance. After which, Tiresias felt that he had to sit and let his stomach work through it. He carried his mug of ale to the fireplace, where no one sat. Most of the inhabitants were just coming down for their own tasteless dinners.

He bent down and started the fire up. Then he sat, nursing his drink, staring…

The dining room behind him seemed to mute, with laughter and clinks of mugs coming in spurts. All else seemed to fade away as Tiresias pondered the flames.

Knowing that there was some truth to the Lord of the Light, he often regarded the fires he watched with apprehension. Who knows what the Lord of Light intended for him? If anything at all. He thought it once frivolously, but what if Melisandre or any other fire priest did show up at Winterfell, guided there? Perhaps he was being guided himself. On one of his travels, should he survive this one, he could wander into the waiting trap of a red priest. End up being burned as a sacrifice…

_If the Three-Eyed Raven knows I’m here, you certainly do too…And if that’s the case, I’m not sure if I want to know what you have planned for me…I’m not stupid enough to believe I can outrun the will of a god._

_Then again…plenty of other gods in this world, right? Do you even have power here in the North? As of now?_

One of the logs cracked and fell off the grate. Tiresias gave a soft bitter laugh.

_Suppose that answers that._

He lifted his mug to drink. Swallowing, he felt his ears perk up. A soft pair of footsteps were making their way toward the fireplace. No problem there. It was open to anyone, but these soft footsteps…they sounded like an animal stalking…

They stopped behind him, off to his right.

“See anything fascinating?”

Tiresias turned to the voice and had to stop his eyes from widening. Keep his face neutral. The man who spoke…if he was who Tiresias thought he was…

It very well could be. The man’s face was less lined, but the jet-black hair was the same, the voice was becoming more familiar and the eyes…

Tiresias swallowed. “Anything fascinating?”

The man with the quiet step walked toward him, gesturing to the fire.

“Yeh been staring into those flames for a solid time now.”

He took the seat next to Tiresias. His eyes were on the fire, but Tiresias knew he was still in the man’s periphery.

“Just tired,” he said, sighing.

“Aye,” said the stranger, nodding. “I know what yeh mean. Been traveling meself for two months. Feels nice to sit by a fire not of me own making.”

“Hmm,” said Tiresias, not knowing what else to say. He fixed his gaze on the fire again and felt the man’s eyes turn towards him. Their focuses switched; he saw the man take out a knife. Normally, he would have reacted, but the man’s movements were far too casual. Sure enough, he heard the knife go through a fruit. An apple, if he had to guess.

“Care for a slice?” He turned to see the man offering a piece. “Can’t eat the whole thing on me own.”

Tiresias shook his head. “No, thank you.”

The man shrugged and popped the slice into his mouth. He continued to eat the apple for a bit while Tiresias sat quietly. The man’s energy…it felt like he was waiting for him to talk. Tiresias was very disinclined to offer any information about himself…but at the same time, it would do to see if his instincts were correct.

“Two months of travel sounds difficult. Do you have a family waiting?”

The man took a draught from his wineskin. “Aye,” he said. “Two boys. Last I heard they were driving their mother mad.”

Focusing to keep his face straight, Tiresias took his own draught. The man was a good liar.

“It’s a bastardin’ thing, my work. Keeps me away from me family.” He sighed low before shrugging. “But what are yeh gonna do? Everyone’s gotta eat.”

“They do,” agreed Tiresias. “What do you do?”

“Game warden. For House Hornwood. Have to spend most of me nights in the fucking cold. Away from the warm wife. A warm, nagging, hardly ever satisfied wife. But still…” He turned to Tiresias and raised his right hand.

“Better than this bony fucker.”

He laughed softly and Tiresias forced himself to crack a smile and nod.

“And you, friend,” the man said, dropping his hand to grab his wineskin. “What’s your trade?”

What was there any point in lying? If this man was who Tiresias thought he was…no.

“I’m the librarian at Winterfell.”

The man raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. “That’s a right rich post there.”

“Indeed?” asked Tiresias, deciding for a bit of banter. “Someone should have told me. Could always use more coin.”

“Couldn’t we all,” said Locke. It wasn’t a question. “Wait a minute…is your name Tiresias then?”

Something in his mind told him that wasn’t a question either. He turned to the man, staring.

“Have we met?”

The man shook his head. “Nah. Just heard a whisper or two about a foreigner carting all over the North for the past couple of years. Bringing books back to Winterfell.”

“Didn’t realize I was well-known.”

Raising his wineskin in a salute, the man smiled. “Not much happens in the North, friend. We all take we can for gossip. Is there no gossip in Winterfell?”

“None that the kitchen maids care to share.”

The man laughed. “Bunch of tight-lipped cunts, aye?”

The opportunity was now. Tiresias forced himself to smile for a few seconds before speaking.

“You have the advantage on me, stranger. You have my name, but I don’t have yours.”

The man stuck out a hand. “Name’s Locke.”

_Well, shit._

Tiresias took his hand and shook it. “Locke, well-met.”

If Tiresias had trouble before picturing the man who took Jaime Lannister’s hand, he certainly didn’t have it now. Locke didn’t seem much younger than he appeared in the show. He hid it well, but the eyes told Tiresias that Locke has already committed heinous, sadistic acts.

The friendliness he recognized as well. The same deposition he put on for Jon Snow at Castle Black. To see it directed at him made his skin tingle. He was the target now.

_And if he’s here now, out in the open, chatting me up…then he must have some friends here._

Cursing his choice for a sitting spot, face away from the room, straight into the hearth, he saw that the fire was struggling.

Thanking his good luck, he crouched down before the hearth.

“So,” said Locke, behind him. “Where yeh headed now?”

“Back to Winterfell,” responded Tiresias. He propped a thin log into the fire, his fingers brushing the flames. “I just came from the Dreadfort. Lord Bolton was generous enough to donate a few materials.”

He stood and turned, perhaps a little more quickly than he would have otherwise, throwing his arms up into a stretch, his eyes searching…

Two men about twenty feet away quickly eyed their cards again. Tiresias had the feeling there were more. But by the time his eyes swept the room, all eyes were on their own business.

So Locke was definitely not alone. He turned to see Bolton’s best hunter looking up at him.

“Have you ever been to the Dreadfort, Locke?”

Locke shook his head. “Nah. Seen the Lord Bolton a couple of times when he's come to Castle Hornwood, but me work’s never taken me to that place.”

Tiresias picked up his mug. He continued to stand.

“I’m grateful to Lord Bolton, of course, for his hospitality and his books,” he said. “But I won’t lie, I was happy to leave. I couldn’t sleep thinking of all the ones that had been flayed in that place.”

Locke shrugged. “Flaying’s long been outlawed in the North.”

“Thank the gods,” said Tiresias. “I know. It’s not fair to the current Lord Bolton, but I couldn’t help it. It’s as if they were all below me, screaming. In severe pain. Telling me to leave and never come back.”

He gave it a second before turning to Locke. The man’s mask had slipped. His friendly act briefly off as he stared at Tiresias.

_Probably wondering what the fuck he’s gotten himself into._

Tiresias drained his mug and set it back on the table.

“Well, Locke, I hope you enjoy the fire.”

“Off to bed already?” The amiable act was back.

“Aye. Need to start early. Heading west to the Kingsroad. Is that your way as well?”

Locke shook his head. “East for me.”

_Not an exact lie. He just has to chain a lone traveler, before riding back for the Dreadfort._

Tiresias nodded and held out his hand.

“Well, have a safe journey, friend. Best to your wife and kids.”

Locke shook his hand.

“Thank yeh, Tiresias. Safe journey for yeh as well.”

Shaking his hand a couple more times, he set off. Crossing the tavern to the stairs, he felt the two men with cards staring at him. Plus a few other eyes that he couldn’t place. By the time he reached the stairs and took a casual look back, all eyes were ignoring him.

He entered his room and shut the door with his left hand, taking care not to touch anything with his right. Crossing to his bed and sitting, he brought his right hand up to his nose and sniffed deeply.

Was it the same scent that he detected in his guest room at the Dreadfort? On his rucksack when he returned from dinner? He couldn’t be sure. Not even his nose was that good. After a couple more sniffs just to rule it out, he dropped his hand and sat still, thinking.

Bolton had men here in the inn. He had entrusted Locke, his best hunter, to find the librarian he had hosted a sennight earlier. Did they find Ramsay? Buried in the earth? Was Roose just acting on suspicion? He wasn’t being approached for a formal arrest and questioning. No, he was being hunted. Locke and his men were circling in the tall grass.

How many though? That was the question. There were the two playing cards. But there had to be more. He felt the eyes following him. More men than any lord would think sufficient to kill a single man. With no known martial prowess.

And with that, he realized one thing: they meant to bring him back alive to the Dreadfort. Roose must have more questions for him and this time, he wouldn’t be wined and dined. No guest right. He would end up on the rack in a deep dungeon and that would be the end. And then it would go beyond that. He couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t betray Ned Stark under the flaying knife. In fact, he was certain he would.

He remained seated in the dark for, at least, an hour, going through these thoughts as they came. Finally he stood and fetched the chair. He propped it against the door, hooking it under the doorknob. Just as in the Dreadfort, whenever he had spent time at an inn in the past sennight, he had barred his door. Tonight was no exception. However, this time he took an extra beat to test the chair's firmness.

Taking another precaution from the Dreadfort, he settled on top of the covers, ready to go at the first sign of a disturbance. His eyes focused on the doorknob. He watched it for several minutes, yawning silently multiple times. He didn’t know how he could feel drowsy, knowing that there was an unspecified number of men in this inn, ready and willing to bring him before Lord Bolton.

A part of him hoped that he was too tired to possibly hear what he thought he heard. A quiet step was coming softly down the hall. His eyes went from the doorknob to the gap beneath the door, where a slight light was peeping through the dark. He watched it intently as the quiet steps came closer and closer.

Locke stopped in front of his door, his shadow visible, albeit barely. Tiresias couldn’t move from his bed without risking a noise. He just kept still, staring and waiting for the next moment.

Which turned out to be thankfully anticlimactic. Locke turned and walked away from the door, his shadow disappearing, his step ghostlike.

If ever he, a man of House Stark, were to be kidnapped or murdered by a bannerman of House Stark, it would be out and away from witnesses. Not in a crowded inn.

There was a voice in his head that screamed for him to stay awake and vigilant. However, another voice countered that.

_You’ll need a little rest if you’re doing to survive tomorrow, man. Take a light snooze._

So the next time he shut his eyes, he didn’t bother opening them. As sleep came, he allowed himself a small wish.

_Just let me wake in the morning. And let me find my bed again tomorrow evening._

* * *

He failed to open his door the next morning without it creaking. Cursing the age of this inn, Tiresias peered out into the hallway. The early morning saw no risers this day. Not so far.

He crept out and moved silently. Walking down the stairs, across the dining area and out the front. The morning air was crisp. He breathed it in, trying to calm himself as he ventured to the stables, to the side where they kept the carts, out of sight from the inn. He wasn’t carrying his bag or anything. He wasn’t planning to flee just yet.

But there was a feeling in the back of his mind. He was vulnerable when he slept last night. They may not have gotten him in his bed, but there were other ways to sabotage a target…

He came to his wagon. From a glance, it looked completely fine. He stared longer and he could still find nothing wrong with it. So he went around and inspected each wheel. Each one seemed sturdy. The spokes were as he left them.

That left the undercarriage. He crouched carefully and peered underneath the front first. Then he moved to the back axle and his breath hitched.

Even in the dim morning light, he could see the sabotage. Near the back-right wheel, the axle was sawn halfway through. He ran his finger along the cut. His eyes fell to the ground and saw a few remaining specks of sawdust. Somebody was here last night.

He got up and went back to the front of the stable, staring at the inn. Two grey-bearded farmers came out. He doubted they were part of the hunting party. He still had time.

Entering the stables, he whisper-yelled. “Is anyone here?”

A lanky, tall boy with blonde curls and terrible acne popped out from a stall, a brush in his hand.

“Aye,” he said. “You here for a horse?”

Tiresias shook his head. “Not yet.” He gestured for the boy to follow him. “Could you come quickly please? I need your help.”

He turned quickly, hearing the boy’s protests falter before he followed him. Exiting the stables, he eyed the inn as he turned the corner for the wagons. The grey-bearded men were gone. He hoped no one was watching from a window…

Coming to his wagon, he turned to see the boy giving a huge yawn. He fought the urge to hurry him. He needed the lad on his good side.

The lad came to a stop before him. “Aye?” he asked, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“What’s your name?” asked Tiresias.

“Vin.”

“All right, Vin.” He went to the back and crouched down. “I want you to be careful and look under this wagon at the back axle. Look where I’m pointing.”

He felt the bewilderment emanating from Vin, but the boy did crouch down and look. Tiresias didn’t have to ask if he saw anything. He heard the boy sharply inhale. He straightened up and Vin stood as well.

All annoyance was gone from the boy’s eyes.

“Someone fucked ye wagon.”

“Aye.”

Vin gave a look over his shoulder and then back to Tiresias.

“Yeh start a fight last night?”

That got a light laugh out of Tiresias. “Nah, just shared a fire.”

Vin didn’t return the laughter. “Well, someone in that place hates yeh, mate. Yeh saw the axle. Good thing yeh found it ‘fore yeh set off.”

Tiresias crouched down to inspect the axle again.

“What would have happened, had I not seen this?”

He heard Vin pat the wheel. “Wheel’s fine.” He crouched down near the front. “And ye front axle’s pitch. But the ground’s likely to fuck yeh all the way to the White Knife.”

Vin stood, scratching his head. “I figure…an hour strong before the fuckin’ thing snaps. Yeh wouldn’t have lasted longer than two.”

That certainly solved the problem of witnesses. The last sighting of Tiresias would be at this inn as he drove off into the early morn. Locke and his men could afford to sleep in. They would catch him easily on the road, sitting on his broken vehicle.

_Maybe he would approach as a friend, toy with me a little longer before they struck._

He turned to Vin.

“I need to leave this morning.”

The boy stared. “Ye ears fucked as well? I told yeh. Two hours on the road, yeh be stuck with a broken wagon. Hurt animal too, probably.”

“Can you fix this?”

Vin shook his head. “Not until tomorrow. I gotta get the other horses ready to leave. Other people in the inn too. Besides, carpenter’s two hours away. I’ll give yeh the directions if you wanna walk there now.”

He turned away, but Tiresias grabbed his arm. Vin jerked away.

“Watch it!”

Tiresias raised his arms. “I’m sorry. I just…” His mind raced. “I just need this wagon to go for longer than two hours. Is there anything, and I mean anything, that you can do to make that happen?”

Vin still looked miffed at being grabbed, but Tiresias could see him thinking.

“I have coin,” he added.

That put a little optimism in the boy’s eyes. Tiresias waited…

Finally, Vin spoke. “I ‘ave some nails and wood in the back. Fix it to the axle. Brace it. Take some pressure off.”

“How much more time would that give me?”

The boy shook his head. “Don’t know. Dumb idea. Yeh should stay. Get it fixed proper.”

“I can’t do that.”

There was a silence only filled with cicadas and birdsong. Vin looked at him and Tiresias saw a little of the perception that Roose had in spades.

“Someone in that inn really wants yeh, aye?” he asked quietly.

Tiresias didn’t answer, but Vin didn’t seem to need him to. He sighed.

“Yeh’d have more than the two hours. Upwards of three. Maybe four.” He shook his head. “But that’s all.”

“Fine,” said Tiresias. He pulled out a silver stag and gave it to Vin. The boy looked at him, wide-eyed. “How long?”

Vin pocketed the stag, thinking. “If yeh help hold the wood for the first nail, much quicker.”

In five minutes, they were crouched down below the wagon. Vin hammered quickly and true enough. After the first nail, the brace could be hold by one. He could continue on his own.

“If yeh have any weight yeh can spare, I’d toss it,” he grunted as Tiresias stood. “This bastardin’ wagon’s gonna need a light arse for its final morn’.”

Tiresias nodded as Vin worked to secure the brace. He hoped the hammering wasn’t too noticeable from the inn. As he walked back, Vin’s work did become dimmer and he sighed in relief. Now he hoped for another stroke of luck…

Which he received as he entered the tavern. The only two occupants were the grey-bearded farmers. He sat down and ordered breakfast from a yawning tavern wench, plus enough dried beef for three days. He had the feeling as he glanced around the tavern; that he would not have comfortable accommodations for the next few nights…

As he ate, others came downstairs, including the two men who played cards last night. They seemed to have learned their lesson and he sensed no furtive glances in his direction. They weren’t joined by any others. In fact, most of the guests sat alone or in twos. He couldn’t tell how many of these men would ride after him in a couple of hours.

Resisting the urge to glance furtively himself, he ate quickly and made for his room.

_Slowly, Tiresias, slowly. Walk calm. Walk natural. You don’t suspect a thing. Just leave expecting nothing but another day of riding…_

As he climbed the stairs, he noticed that Locke wasn’t down yet. He hoped that was a good sign. He entered his room, not bothering to check if anyone had searched it. He gathered the sack of tomes and placed the dried beef in his rucksack. He also grabbed a blanket from the bed, hiding it away.

Coming back down, he handed his key to the innkeeper and exited, wondering how many eyes were on him. He crossed to the stables, telling himself not to look back. What if Locke was watching from a window?

He entered the stables and saw Vin. The boy nodded and went to fetch Marlee. Tiresias exited, rounding the corner of the stables to the wagon. He knelt and check the brace. It was clunky and he hated the idea of riding with it. But he had no choice.

He placed the sack with the tomes by the side of the stables. Gently he then tossed the rucksack into the wagon and threw the blanket over the wagon. It would cover the back end, hiding the brace from view. Should anyone care to watch him depart.

He then gripped the yoke and pulled, dragging the wagon around and to the front of the stable where Vin was waiting with Marlee.

As they reined the mule, Tiresias passed a silver stag to Vin.

“That’s for the axle.”

He passed another one. Vin’s eyes widened.

“That’s for keeping this quiet and for another favor.” He lowered his voice to a mutter. “I have three tomes in a sack along the stables where this wagon was. Please keep them until another from Winterfell comes this way, however long that may be. Give the tomes to them. If you could.”

Vin nodded and offered him the reins. Tiresias hesitated.

“It’ll hold,” Vin promised. “Just be gentle.”

Tiresias smiled grimly. “Aye.” He climbed onto the wagon. Not too gingerly. As far as anyone saw, he suspected nothing. He nodded to Vin.

“Thank you,” he said. And resisting one last temptation to look back, he clicked his tongue and the wagon rolled forward.

* * *

He couldn’t remember the last time he wanted a watch so badly. Guessing when an hour had gone by wasn’t easy under the best circumstances and certainly not when one was listening for the distant hooves of an approaching hunting party.

Counting his breath, he took another look behind him. The road was still empty. The mist had burned up and it was clear for the first time in four days. If they approached on the main road, he’d see them coming. Bad news was they’d see him as well.

When he finally felt safe estimating that an hour had gone by, or a little over, he passed a mill. He could glimpse no farther settlement on the road. No scent of smoke from a fire, a forge or the turned earth of a plowed field. He was alone with no one to witness his capture.

Though he did recognize a couple of landmarks, it had been months since he had walked this road. Locke and his men certainly knew this area a lot better than he did. His axle was sawed just enough to break after an approximate distance. The next few miles or so…that’s probably where they intended to strike.

With no other option, he began to count. He probably should have started right when he left the inn, but it was better than nothing. He was certain at least an hour and a half had passed. After another half-hour or so he estimated, he surveyed his first option for cutting and running.

Something didn’t feel right. He could probably make good time but the south of this road was lightly forested and it felt like he would be easily tracked. So he continued, eating small amounts of the dried beef to build his strength.

At an estimated three hours out from the inn, he glanced back. No sign of Locke and his men, but he was beginning to push it. He swore he heard the brace beginning to strain and he knew he’d be lucky to get another hour out of this wagon. But this area didn’t seem any good to him either. Still, he may have no choice. He had to get off soon to create enough distance.

However, just when he was amping himself up to abandon Marlee, he heard the distant rush of water and his heart leapt.

_The White Knife_.

He could walk faster than Marlee could pull a wagon and he underestimated how long his journey would be with the donkey. However, he had finally arrived at White Knife.

Well, not exactly. Ten...maybe twenty minutes away. That’s when he would jump ship…or wagon. He only hoped the vehicle would last not just until then, but even longer after, drawing the hunting party farther west. By this point, if they left the inn at a reasonable hour, they soon would reach the place when they had intended to ambush him. When they got there and realized that the wagon wasn’t broken on the road…then they would really start to haul ass.

Tiresias clicked his tongue. “Come on, Marlee. A little hustle on the end game.”

Marlee did pick it up a little and Tiresias counted twelve minutes before they rounded the bend and came to the bridge over the White Knife. As they crossed, Tiresias looked back. Still no sign…

Once the wagon had cleared, Tiresias grabbed his rucksack and bow. He jumped, landing lightly on his feet.

And Marlee came to a stop.

_Shit._

“Marlee, come on, buddy. Keep going,” said Tiresias. He grabbed the reins and pulled Marlee forward, leading him for ten feet and then releasing. The donkey stopped after that.

Tiresias focused on his breathing. He must remain calm. He mustn’t succumb to panic. There had to be a way…

He went to the forest and tore off a branch. Coming back to the road, he went to the back of the donkey, off to the side.

_I’m sorry, Marlee._

He struck the animal. Lightly at first, but then harder in succession. Marlee brayed and began to move. Tiresias walked along for another hundred feet, alternating between pausing and striking him, not leaving the donkey any clue when to stop.

Finally, Tiresias stopped and stood off quietly. Marlee continued to tread onward with the wagon. He eyed the brace as the axle spun. It was still there, but it would break and soon.

_I hope it doesn’t hurt you when it does, Marlee._

Well-aware that there was more animal cruelty on this venture than he was comfortable with, he turned and moved quietly back, the sound of the rolling wagon wheels fading into the distance.

Once he was back at the river, he threw the branch into the current and did one last check. No riders from the east. Determined not to push his luck any further, he checked that the ground wasn’t too muddy and stepped south into the forest. Keeping the White Knife on his left, the road quickly disappeared behind him, though he could still see the bridge.

He began to jog. Not hard enough to lose his breath, but he needed to create as much distance as possible between him and whoever the hell was coming from the Dreadfort.

_Just lose sight of that bridge…just lose sight of that bridge..._

Glancing between the trees, it was indeed getting smaller and smaller. Finally, he followed the river around a bend. And when he looked back, the bridge was completely gone. Nobody crossing it would even glimpse him now if they tried.

He stopped, panting slightly.

_Just a breath. Need to pace. Still need to run for much longer._

The waterskin was still full, but he sipped gingerly. Always sip and let the water absorb into your body. Never chug, no matter how refreshing it feels. Who taught him that? Scouts? The hunters at Winterfell?

He shook his head. His break was done and he had to keep moving. He had no idea how long Marlee would lead that false wagon trail and when Locke and his men would catch up.

Swallowing his spit, he started again, careful not to disrupt the brush.

* * *

The day ended with Tiresias bracing himself against a tree. He cursed in between his pants. For all the thoughts of pacing himself, he allowed fear to overtake him. He ran for too long and his body was beginning to rebel. If he hadn’t trained continuously for five years, he would have collapsed hours ago.

He spat as he looked back.

“Fuck,” he muttered. He was careful in the beginning about the brush, not leaving a trail for anyone to follow. That wasn’t the case for the last mile or so. Desperation seeped into his brain as he ran farther and longer than he had intended.

_Gotta create distance…just ten more minutes…quartermile more…come on, Clark…move!_

Tiresias laughed in spite of himself. He hadn’t thought of that name for a long time. He must really be lizard-brained. Assessing his surroundings, he leaned against a tree and slunk down. It wasn’t the best place for a rest, but at this point, he had no choice. He should have stopped and climbed that one tree an hour ago. But the sun had just set and he could still see. He could still put more distance in between…

Now he couldn’t. He took some dried beef and chewed it slowly, staring back north in the dark. His ears were plugged. Blood was still pumping through him. His heart racing. He ate slowly and drank the water. Still sipping it. Not chugging it.

He didn’t even get up to go pee. Unbuttoning his pants, he turned to the side and relieved himself, settling back in when he was done.

_That was a dumb mistake, asshole. Animals will come. And you’re too tired to fight them off. Could have just staggered to the river…_

Tiresias shut his eyes. The rush of the White Knife was singing him to sleep…

_Aye, well, that’s the jist of it. Need to sleep. Just for a few hours. It’s dark now. Been dark for a while. _

He opened to glimpse the forest. His vision was blurred and weary.

_Just a few hours. And then I can keep going…_

* * *

Tiresias opened his eyes, with enough recovered energy to know that more than a few hours had passed. The forest was awash in the grey light of the predawn. Glimpsing his hands and other digits, he sighed in relief.

No animal came to chew anything off.

Still, he cursed himself as he got up. He had been in one place for too long and he had to move. Even farther south before turning west onto Winterfell.

But as he hitched his rucksack up and picked up his waterskin, he remembered that he drained it last night. It wouldn’t do for the day.

_Just a few more moments._

He trudged down to the White Knife, balancing on the rocks and dipping his waterskin in. Even with his tolerance to the cold, he knew this water would freeze a man shortly. He just yawned, allowing the coolness to soothe him, listening to the early morning sounds of birdsong, dogs, cicadas…

He froze, before jerking his head up. Corking the skin, he moved swiftly back to the trees and listened. Shutting down all but north of him, where he had left the road and the moving wagon…

It wasn’t his imagination. He had heard barks at the riverside and they were coming closer and closer, now at a half mile away. He should have guessed that they’d bring their dogs. And they definitely latched onto something. He could hear their frenzy from here. All the distance he created yesterday was for naught.

He took a draught from the skin. It wouldn’t do to start running on a dried windpipe…

Packing the skin away and slinging the bow over his shoulder, he turned and ran. He had no concern anymore for the brush. They knew he was this way. All that mattered now was speed.

But dogs were faster. He had been running for ten minutes when he heard howls behind him. He put them at his makeshift campsite. Where he had peed. They must have caught that.

“Fuck,” he spat, in between breaths.

_Why not just leave them a fucking note next time?_

He picked up the pace, kicking his heels up, thankful that his boots were well-worn and supple. The tiniest pink was in the sky, kissing the White Knife.

Despite his rest, he felt his lungs begin to burn. He couldn’t keep this up much longer.

_Just keep going_…_just go…GO!_

He jumped a log and stumbled, stopping at a tree, trying to catch his breath…

_No…no, you can’t…not this way..._

Forcing himself to swallow his spit, he pushed and continued to sprint.

_Sooner or later, they’ll be near enough. That’s when they’ll release their dogs. And if you think those dogs are fast now…_

“Fuck,” he spat again. Curses were his only comfort.

He kept his ears north as he moved, trying to listen for it. Trying to hear the moment when the party realized they were near enough. He looked back more than once.

And as he focused forward again, his eyes caught the White Knife, continuing to flow…

He caught himself staring at it, before forcing his gaze forward. His lungs were hurting now.

_Maybe…just maybe…_

But he had to wait for the moment. For the release. He had to time it just right…

He slowed just a little, allowing himself to catch some of his breath. He would need his strength. Especially for this. And if he could force the hands of those motherfuckers…

“Come on,” he muttered in between gasps. “Release the hounds…haven’t…got all day…”

Finally he heard it. He imagined more than heard a shout of “Get him!” He was well out of eyesight and earshot for those running on two legs. But for those running on four, he was near enough. The howls renewed with a fury.

They would be on him in a minute. He started to sprint again. Maybe two minutes.

He kept glancing at the White Knife, trying to find an opening. He had to time this right…

Barks behind him put them at a few hundred feet. He counted one…two…three distinct barks.

_Three hounds…only three…okay._

And the White Knife was opened before him. A section of the riverside devoid of trees and brush. He ran to it and saw rapids in the distance. The sight gave him a second wind as he crashed into the water. He tore off the bow and quiver, abandoning them to the water before diving in. It wasn’t worth accidentally strangling himself.

Sound came in and out as he freestyled to the center of the river, feeling his speed increase with the current. On the riverbank, he heard the barks, the rocks scurrying as the paws hit them and the crash of a creature jumping into the water.

Making sure no rocks laid before him, he turned to see the second dog enter the White Knife. The third one was just reaching the riverbank. But the first one was already swimming toward him, doggy-paddling like mad.

He ran his fingers across his dagger, still in his sheath before turning forward again. The rapids were coming up.

Feeling his body speed up with the torrent, he stopped swimming and brought his legs forward to push against any debris or rock. The river swept him along, faster and faster. As he looked back, he saw the dog nearing. It hadn’t stopped swimming with the rapids. But it was panting hard.

Double-checking to make sure he was in the clear for the next section of the river, he turned his body around, his feet toward the approaching dog. Bending his legs, he watched as it continued to swim, its teeth baring amidst the frenzied breaths.

_Come on, you son of a bitch…little closer, come on!_

With one last glance forward to double check for oncoming rocks, he brought his eyes back to see that the dog was within a few feet...

_Three…two…ONE!_

He kicked, his boot coming out of the water to hit the dog straight on the nose. It yelped and continued to swim forward, blindly. He kicked it again and again. And it kept swimming.

“Come on,” he gasped. “Fuck off! Fuck off!”

It didn’t though and on his fourth kick, though it connected as well, the dog bit down and latched onto his foot. Tiresias felt the pressure mount, but the boot held well and the dog was weakened, holding down the bite on pure instinct. He continued to kick it with his left foot. He hit the dog’s eye. It yelped but it still didn’t release.

He couldn’t help but notice the second dog nearing them.

Looking forward, he saw the rapids coming to a stop. There was a giant boulder in the river though before the end. It was coming up fast.

Steering as well as he could in the rapids with a delirious animal on his foot, he swung his foot to the side. In the path of the oncoming boulder. The pressure in his foot was growing stronger and stronger. It was thirty feet away…twenty…ten…

He gave one final kick just before the hit. He struck the throat and the top of the dog’s head collided with the boulder. Red splurged into the river and the pressure on his foot disappeared.

Tiresias didn’t waste energy on a cheer. He barely kicked the dead animal away before the second dog was on him. He tried to kick it as he did the first, but this one was too near. His kick landed on its underbelly and while the dog huffed, it still swam forward, its jaw opening.

Sending his fist forward, he punched the dog in the nose, pulling his fingers back before the dog snapped back. There was no getting away from this.

_But that goes for you too, pooch._

He reached forward quickly and grabbed the dog’s throat with both hands. It writhed and thrashed in the water, but Tiresias wasn’t letting go. He couldn’t.

The rapids were gone and the gentle current was still flowing quickly, carrying the struggling duo along.

Risking enough for a glance upstream, he saw the third dog. It was still in the rapids. He couldn’t fight two at once…

Deciding the time was nigh for a stupid, risky move, he brought the dog close and got on top. He was lean, but still strong enough to force the dog underwater. It helped that the Bolton kennelmaster loved them enough to give them collars…

He reached under and pulled the collar down, pinning the dog's torso with his legs. It continued to writhe violently and Tiresias held on for dear life.

_Just a minute…need to hold for one minute…_

But it was a long minute. The dog was as desperate to live as he was and several times, it came near to freedom, to finding his hands with its frantic snapping jaws. All the while, the third dog was coming nearer. He didn’t dare look back to confirm, but he heard it.

Finally though, the jerks lessened and ceased. He kept the dog under though, not trusting the first few seconds of stillness. Though he did chance a look back. The third dog was a hundred feet away.

After confirming that the second dog was as dead as it was ever going to be, he released his hold, pushing the still body away quickly, just in case it came to life. It didn’t though and continued to float, veering gently to the side.

Tiresias only floated long enough to confirm that before continuing to swim. He didn’t need to see the final canine. He heard it clear enough. Paddling closer. Undeterred by its dead companions.

In the water, they were equally quick and although Tiresias was breathing harder and harder as they moved through the water, he heard the dog’s panting deepen considerably more. It was more work for the dog to keep up.

_That’s right…tucker out, keep paddling…come and get me…_

He had no idea how long he swam with the dog following. Couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. The sun was beginning to break over the hills. His limbs were tiring quickly. He had to end this. Had to find a good spot.

On his right side, he saw it. Solid ground that rose slowly out of the river into a bank. He veered toward it, hearing the hound follow him.

He stood up in the water and his boots hit the riverbed. The river was flowing steadily though, and he struggled to walk forward.

Still, better than the dog. With its smaller legs, it’ll have to swim longer before it could reach the riverbed and run forward.

Staggering out of the water, he ignored all instincts to collapse. He couldn’t. Not yet. He stumbled to good ground and pivoted. He took off his rucksack and threw it to the side. The dog was still swimming toward him. Fifty feet off.

He unbuttoned his jacket, his fingers fumbling on the first one before finding a rhythm. Fear was threatening to undermine him.

_It’s just one. You’ve narrowed them down to one. Come on._

The dog was thirty feet away, its eyes still bright.

He removed his jacket, pulling it inside out around his left arm. Wrapping it around the forearm, he pulled it tightly, giving the loose sleeve to his left hand to grip. It wasn’t his leather boot, but he didn’t have time to hope it would be enough.

The dog’s feet found the riverbed and it began to run, fighting the water. Fifteen feet.

For a split second, Tiresias thought that his dagger came loose and was lost in the White Knife. But his belt has just shifted. He unsheathed it and crossed his arms in front, his bundled left arm shielding the blade he gripped in his right…

With a fresh fury, the hound exploded from the water. Still panting, it bolted to the target.

Tiresias exhaled.

_Just you and me. Nothing more._

The dog jumped; its jaw open. Tiresias threw his left arm forward and the jaws met it, biting down with immense strength. Even with his arm padded, he felt the pressure shoot through his whole arm. He yelled in pain and brought his dagger to the hound’s throat.

He missed though, hitting the chest but it was enough. The pressure on his arm disappeared and the dog fell to the riverbank, yelping, the dagger still in its side. He kicked the head and the yelps ceased. Withdrawing the dagger, he went for the throat and stabbed again. The forest fell silent.

The voice in his head screamed for him to move but he couldn’t. He breathed, allowing his heart to slow. He remained kneeling for a moment. He could spare a moment...

Swallowing his spit, he took his eyes from the dead dog and gingerly removed his jacket. The skin wasn’t punctured. No bones broken. At worst, he might have a big bruise. Not a bad price.

He put the jacket back on and sighed, his sigh coming out in a shudder. He extracted the knife, wiping the blade on the dog’s fur, before fetching his rucksack. Upon taking a draught from his waterskin, he found himself chugging it. He couldn’t help it.

_Three dogs…no…no, five dogs. Maybe one mule. And Rosie…_

Glancing down at the dog, he swallowed a bit of bile that threatened to come up.

“Sorry about the kick,” he muttered. “That wasn’t necessary.”

Raising his eyes from the dog to the north, he wondered how far behind the men were. When would they discover the dead dogs? Where would they go next?

He didn’t have much time. Once they found the dead hounds, they’ll renew the hunt.

_They’ll go down the riverbank, see if they can find where I got out. And then they’ll pursue me into the forest. Probably see me trying to run straight to Winterfell for Lord Stark’s protection. Try and cut me off before then. The Kingsroad. Any road west of here._

He would be better off not going to Winterfell straight away. Let the hunt cool off. Let them go home. Come to the castle another way.

_You could still be there before the half-year is done._

He laughed weakly in between his panting. The fact that he even considered that amused him.

So he needed somewhere to cool off for a while. Somewhere busy where he couldn’t be tracked.

His eyes went to the White Knife, its stream flowing steady.

_A normal man would freeze in that river. Locke knows that. But he doesn’t know about me._

He could follow this river however long it floated him. Taking him all the way to White Harbor if he wanted…

That was meant to be a laugh, but Tiresias quickly warmed to the idea. He walked to the edge of the forest until he reached grass. Then he backtracked, stepping in the same bootprints, until he reached the river where he came stumbling out. Afterwards, he removed his boots and tied them to his rucksack. He didn’t need to risk Trench foot. As he strode barefoot back into the water and let the currents sweep him along, he turned the bemused thought into his new destination.

_Goodbye, Locke. I hope never to see you again. Although…if you do manage to track me down all the way to White Harbor…I guess you deserve to flay me._

With one look back at the dog's carcass, he began to freestyle downstream.

* * *

To say that he swam all the way down the White Knife to White Harbor would be an exaggeration. He did swim a significant chunk of it however. After a sennight, when he was certain that no hunting party was following him down the southeast waterway, he simply walked the aligning trail. Trudging along, allowing his clothes and boots to finally dry.

He lit his first campfire in months. Though he didn’t need the heat for himself, it brought him more joy than he thought. He hung his clothes and submitted himself to bug bites that night in exchange for dry clothing. He may have been itching for two days afterward, but at least his clothes weren’t damp. He trapped and hunted freely and walked with only a healthy amount of caution, which, after months of his preoccupation with young Ramsay, came as a relief.

After six nights on the trail, he came upon the city of White Harbor in the early afternoon. The lightness in his chest only increased. The last time he came here, he was undercover with Renei. Now he could freely explore the largest port city in the North. Unbothered by any hunters.

The smell of the sea hit him before he ever entered the city and only intensified from there. He welcomed it though. It smelled like the Pacific Northwest. He tried to still the lightness growing in his chest. It was a good way to mark oneself an easy target for a pickpocket. Strolling into a city. Smiling like a fool.

He sat down at the first tavern he found and ordered an early dinner. By now, he was calm enough to curb his desire to scarf through the food and order seconds. He took his time and ate slowly. When he was finally satiated, he inquired for an open room.

It was still light when he settled into his bed. His window didn’t face the sea. He didn’t care on both accounts. To sleep safely was enough and a patch of dirt on the side of the White Knife wasn’t restful enough to recover from what he had experienced. He shut his eyes before sunset and even didn’t prop his chair against the door.

He didn’t wake until well after the following dawn. However, he did rouse himself in time for a late breakfast. After which, he walked down to the fish market between the outer harbor and the Seal Gate. He stared out at the Seal Rock. The waves were loud, but they still carried the cries of the seals to his ears.

Not quite hungry for lunch, he wandered to the Fishfoot Yard, where the traders made their first stop before exiting the city. Last time he was here with Renei, they encountered some merchants preparing to head north. Winterfell was often along their way.

After some inquiry, he found an old man and his daughter, who were actually somewhat familiar to him. They had a large well-worn wagon that bore salt every month to Winterfell. They were loading barrels when Tiresias approached.

“Hello…Randar, aye?”

The old man turned to him. “I know ye?”

“My name is Tiresias. I’m the librarian at Winterfell. I’ve seen you deliver salt to the castle before.”

Randar looked at him before turning to his daughter. “Aymee! Yeh seen this man ‘fore?”

Aymee barely glanced before shaking her head. “Nah, pa.”

The old man turned back to Tiresias. “I ain’t seen you either.”

Tiresias sighed. “Well, I do work at Winterfell and I would like your help.”

“No room on the wagon for yeh.”

“Is there room enough for a letter?”

“Eh?”

“A letter. Could you carry a letter?”

Finally, with a copper star and the promise of another from Vanyon Poole upon delivery of the letter, Randar agreed to carry a letter when he and his daughter left the city this evening.

Hoping that Vanyon Poole would forgive him, Tiresias ventured to the town scribe and purchased a single scrap of parchment. He scratched a letter out to Lord Stark, hoping that the Warden didn’t think him dead after so long without a word. He wondered if he should send something to Mal as well.

_That depends. Have you decided what you wanted yet?_

Realizing he didn’t have an answer to that question yet, he decided against it. He still planned to be back before half a year. He’ll come to it by then.

Sealing the letter, he brought it back to Randar with the copper star and left feeling even lighter. He went back to the Fishfoot Yard and purchased some mussels in a savory broth. He sat down at a table in the square, watching the crowds go by. A tan fat man in a blood-orange tunic approached his table shortly.

“Pardon me, my good man. May I share your table?” he asked politely.

Seeing that all of the other tables were quite full, Tiresias nodded, his mouth full of mussel. The merchant thanked him and sat down, with his own early dinner. Tiresias glanced or rather smelled a large lamprey pie and fried eels.

Missing his mother’s salmon more than ever, he focused back on his mussels.

“My name is Barrock,” said the polite stranger, nodding to him. “What is your name, if I may ask?”

“Tiresias,” he responded, after swallowing.

“Tiresias…Tiresias…” Barrock ran the name over. “A strange name…”

“I’m from Essos.”

“I see. Well then, welcome to Westeros. What brought you over to the dreary North? Are you a sailor?”

Tiresias shook his head. “Librarian at Winterfell.”

Delighted surprise filled the man’s face as he laughed. “Pardon me, Tiresias. Here I was, welcoming you to Westeros and you already work for the Warden of the North!”

He leaned forward, conspiracy in his eyes. “You won’t speak ill of Barrock and his poor choice of words for the North to your master, yes? It was only in jest.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He couldn’t decide if he liked Barrock or not. Whether he appreciated the company. Or whether he just wanted to be alone with the sea breeze in the harbor.

“Thank you, friend.” Barrock laughed and broke the crust on his lamprey pie. He savored the first bite as he seemed to savor everything. Tiresias couldn’t help but smile.

“Are you always this cheerful?”

“But of course!” The merchant dabbed his mouth with his sleeve. “I don’t sell my goods with a dour face. I sell them because I am happy to sell them and I must always be happy to sell them.”

Tiresias lifted his bowl to drink the broth. “Sounds tiring.”

“At first, yes. But then, like any muscle, you grow used to it and you become stronger and stronger. Soon you can approach anything with cheer. Including the table of a stranger to make a new friend!”

Tiresias listened to the man’s words carefully. It seemed that Barrock was genuine. And based on his clothing, the man was at least moderately successful.

Barrock chewed his lamprey, swallowing before he spoke. Thankfully.

“But I will admit; I’m happier than I am most days, Tiresias.”

His eyes begged Tiresias to ask why and he relented.

“Why are you so happy, Barrock?”

“I’m happy because I will be very rich in a month and a half!”

“And what happens in a month and a half?”

Barrock chuckled. “A tourney, my friend. The grandest in a decade. In King’s Landing. All for a blonde prince and his twelfth nameday.”

If Tiresias had been holding his bowl, he would have dropped it. Thankfully he had already set the broth down and he simply froze, staring at Barrock. Something rung in the back of his mind. Something about never betting against one’s brother. About a prize. A transfer of a dagger…

Petyr was long dead. But perhaps…perhaps there was still a way for things to fall correctly…

Barrock had noticed his new friend’s slipped composure.

“Are you faring well, Tiresias?”

He brought himself back. “Aye, thank you. This tourney…this tourney is for Joffrey’s…Prince Joffrey’s twelfth nameday?”

“That’s right.”

“In a month and a half? When? Precisely?”

He swallowed, trying to calm himself as the merchant thought. He needed to be casual.

“Six sennights. In two days from now.” Barrock took another bite of his pie. “Then, I will sell more oil than I've sold in six months. That's my trade. I sell oil. Jugs of it. Oil for your steels. Oil for your skin. For men and for women. Oil for old private parts that need…forgive me, we’re eating.”

Barrock laughed, full of mirth. Tiresias sat quietly. All sounds of the harbor disappeared as he considered it. Finally he looked back at Barrock.

“When do you leave for King’s Landing? Do you have a ship?”

He shook his head. “Not here. I rented a cabin on a ship that leaves tonight. I have to be in King’s Landing when my merchandise comes ashore.”

“What ship?”

For the first time, Barrock’s cheer turned a little suspicious as he looked at Tiresias. “The _Red Turtle_,” he said. “Why?”

“Is there any room on that ship?”

The smile came back to Barrock. “Are you planning to sail with us?”

Tiresias shrugged. “Mayhaps. You can find materials for a library in the South that you can’t come to easily in the North. Never seen a tourney before either. Northerners don’t seem to care for them much.”

“You’re right about that,” remarked Barrock. “If you stay above the Neck, you’ll never see one.” He clasped his hands, thinking. “It didn’t seem like they were crowded. And I know the captain. I’ve sailed with him before. He always enjoys extra coin from passengers.”

Tiresias nodded. “Sounds like a reasonable man.” He stood. “Where is the ship? What time does it leave?”

“The second pier. You can’t miss it. It has its namesake painted on the bow. We set sail at sunset.”

“All right.” He turned to leave.

“Are you not going to finish your broth, Tiresias?”

He didn’t bother slowing down, let alone turning around to call back. “Too much to do.”

First thing he did was fetch his rucksack from the inn and pay his bill. He exited the inn and ran, dodging every civilian he could and yelling back apologies to those he couldn’t. He reached the Fishfoot Yard and eyed the sun carefully. He still had an hour. Maybe.

He found Randar and Aymee preparing to set out. Just as the man was about to move forward, he called out.

“Randar! Randar, stop! Please!”

The old man turned to see him and actually deigned, though he figured it was more out of surprise than a common courtesy.

“What’s yer yelling for?” he asked, bewildered.

Tiresias gasped for breath. “The letter…I…I need to make an amendment.”

A blank stare followed. “Eh?”

“An amendment. I…I need to add something.”

In the end, the old man relented and pulled out the letter. Tiresias opened it and set to work, making a harsh scribble against the wagon surface.

As he sealed it again, the entire message read as such:

_To Lord Stark,_

_Lord Bolton was as gracious a host as you said. Unfortunately, upon my return from the Dreadfort, I was set upon by bandits. I am unharmed but unfortunately was forced to abandon the materials that Lord Bolton was generous enough to donate. Please don’t bother Lord Bolton for them at this time. His son, Ramsay, has been missing. He need not concern himself with my negligence. _

_As the road was no longer safe for me, I decided to diverge to White Harbor. I’ll be back within a month. Best wishes to you and your family._

_Sincerely,_

_Tiresias_

_Postscript -_ _ Disregard my intention to return within a month. I’ll be heading to King’s Landing to pursue some opportunities we discussed, concerning the library. As most transport won’t be leaving the city until the end of Prince Joffrey’s nameday tourney, I expect I’ll be there until then. I’ll come up the Kingsroad at that time._

_Post-postscript - Will you please get word to Mal, Mistress Bane’s assistant, that I still plan to honor my word? Thank you kindly._

Randar pocketed the amended letter scowling, but Tiresias was already striding away. Dread gathered in his stomach as he walked down the second pier and approached the _Red__ Turtle_. He had spent years planning his last mission, poring over maps and stories of the Dreadfort and the surrounding area to hunt and kill Ramsay. He had only a fortnight sail to plan his time in King’s Landing. A city he knew little of. To figure out what he even wanted there.

This spontaneity was not something he embraced, although he knew deep down this was a golden opportunity. That knowledge didn’t ease his nerves as he brought his passage to the capitol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! And so continues Tiresias' adventures away from Winterfell. Hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'll see you next week with Chapter 26!
> 
> Also, bonus point to anyone who can guess what movie I stole the river scene from!


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Cabrio9f for recognizing the river scene in the last chapter from No Country for Old Men!
> 
> That aside, please enjoy the chapter.

The seawind did a fair job concealing the smell of King’s Landing as they entered the harbor. However, once they docked and the ship was still, it hit him hard, causing him to gag.

Olenna Tyrell was right. And he wasn’t even miles away to smell the shit. If he had a normal sense of smell, it would still be bad. With his nose…it was all he could do just to keep a straight face. He suspected that people maintained about the same level of hygiene across Westeros. What was it about Winterfell and the North in general? Was it just the sparse population? Or was it the strong winds and the cool climate that mitigated the stink? The heat here definitely wasn’t helping.

And it was warm. It wasn’t unbearable. But his comfort was definitely in the cold and he hadn’t felt warmth like this since he had woken up in Westeros. Not even in the Riverlands.

He shook himself. He had to get going.

Fortifying his nose, he exited the _Red Turtle_, pushing his way past the sailors and merchants as they unloaded their goods. Barrock was too busy to say farewell and that suited him fine. In fact, everyone ignored him.

As he stepped off the docks and onto the cobblestone, he realized that he was in a true city for the first time in years…

He stood off to the side and took it all in. When was the last time he had walked a street this crowded? When was the last time he had heard so many voices? He passed through the city gate and his eyes found red brick into the distance.

And when was the last time he’d seen a building that tall?

The Red Keep stood impressive on the hill, overlooking Blackwater Bay. Tiresias wasn’t sure if the castle covered more ground than Winterfall, but from where he stood, it certainly seemed like it. The windows in the Great Hall reflected the sun. Serpentine steps linked across its base and if he focused hard enough, he could see the Baratheon colors flowing in the wind.

Aware that he resembled a tourist, gaping at the big shiny castle on the hill, he walked across the market square, and entered the main thoroughfare counting the streets he passed. Barrock was kind enough to recommend an inn and tavern that he stayed at before; the Purple Rose. It was clean enough, supposedly. Though he couldn’t count for the availability of rooms or how inflated the prices were for the upcoming tourney.

Figuring he’d give it a shot, he followed Barrock’s directions carefully and came to a three-leveled building with a hanging sign of a purple rose. It was squeezed between two other taverns. Resigning himself to a month with noisy neighbors, he stepped forward, slapping away a small hand reaching for his purse.

He entered the inn and a bearded man came to him.

“You got a room available?”

The innkeeper scratched his beard, rather harshly. “Aye. Two. Both on the top floor.”

“Just one’s fine.”

“Aye, but I warn yeh,” the innkeeper said, brandishing his finger. “Yeh get yehself up ‘n down those steps. I ain’t carryin’ yeh piss-drunk at the end of the night!”

Swallowing a smartass retort, Tiresias nodded. “All right.”

With that cleared up, the innkeeper brightened. But only a little. “Name’s Mikal.”

“Tiresias.”

“And how long yeh figure on staying here, Tiresias?”

He hitched his rucksack on his shoulder. “Til the tourney, I guess. Five sennights. Maybe couple days after.”

Mikal nodded. “Thirty-seven nights. Two stags a sennight at two stars a night. Run yeh ten stags and four stars.”

Determined to keep a level of calm on his face, Tiresias opened his purse. Months with no income had finally caught up to him and he was too light to stay here.

_Seems it’s expensive to visit a city anywhere, anytime..._

He looked up to see Mikal’s face grow quickly suspicious at the slow payment. Handing over two stags, he nodded reassuringly.

“That’s for the first sennight. By tomorrow night, I’ll have the rest for yeh.”

Mikal took the two stags begrudgingly, not eager to make that compromise. But it was only another night. So the old man shrugged and reached for a key.

“One sennight. The other four…we’ll see.” He handed the key over.

Tiresias smiled graciously as he accepted the key. “Thank you. Tomorrow night. I swear.”

It wasn’t a lie. He actually did have a plan to get more coin. It just wasn’t something he cared for much.

However that could wait until the following day. For now, he had a bed to claim. After climbing the perilous narrow staircase to the third floor, he opened his door to see a small, but tidy room. He sniffed. It smelled like humanity. Not in the worst sense. But not in the best sense either.

Knowing that opening the window would only worsen the smell, he threw his rucksack on the floor, unbuckled his belt and fell on the bed. A fortnight of sailing had winded him.

* * *

It wasn’t just in the Northern forests where Tiresias had found use for his enhanced senses. Up close, people tended to betray themselves. He saw it in Roose’s eyes, despite the man’s demeanor. However, under lighter circumstances, he saw it in the taverns at Wintertown and across the North. Men and women who held their cards tight and bluffed their way to the pot.

Tiresias didn’t use this advantage often, stepping in for a quick game every couple of months and earning a few stars and stags. He didn’t need to draw attention to himself and he made sure to lose a few times to keep the peace. However, in this new city with a draining purse, he saw no other option. He couldn’t wait until the tourney to try his luck.

The next morning, he didn’t enter the tavern at the Purple Rose or any of the ones beside it. There was a care to this he had to employ. Walking back down to the harbor, he entered a tavern and joined a card game, nursing a weakened ale as he did. In the end, he played four rounds and won a stag and five stars. Just enough to make the trip worthwhile, but not so much as to warrant anger from the other players when he departed with his winnings.

Strolling along the Hook, as he learned later the swindling road was called, he stopped into seven establishments all together. Spaced enough apart as to diffuse any suspicion. He laughed at the jokes. Took the insults to his accent in stride. And he watched carefully as he played. He even lost at one place.

It was a balancing that lasted the entire day. A purple sunset colored the sky as he walked back to the inn. He entered, striding straight to Mikal the innkeeper and without a word, placed eight stags and four copper stars into his hands.

Mikal eyed the coins, before meeting his gaze. “No blood on these, eh?”

Tiresias snorted. “I’m a librarian. Not a cutthroat.”

“That so? Get all these from reading, eh?” Mikal asked, but the man was smiling now at least. Tiresias felt his own grin grow.

“Something like that.”

The next sennight, Tiresias prowled the city. It brought back forgotten memories from Clark backpacking across Europe. Vaguely though. This was a living city. Not a tour. And it still stank, though Tiresias swore he was getting used to it.

He tried to avoid standing and gawking at whatever caught his interest. It would be quite stupid if the locals began to recognize him. However, with the looming tourney, most of the residents were caught up in their own business, trying to prepare for it. Not that they cared much for who would win, but many more highborn would occupying King’s Landing than usual. More spenders. The possibility of making more coin in a fortnight than they would all year was enough motivation to focus on one’s work and ignore the clean-shaven, foreign stranger exploring the sights.

Another incentive for more highborn to attend was that the Crown had organized the tourney’s start to the date that taxes were due from each of the Seven Kingdoms. Those already spending money are usually in the habit of spending a little more. Also, each kingdom would be sending their payment under guard to the Red Keep. More soldiers in the city with their own coin. It all revolved around coin.

Based on all this, Tiresias was tempted to buy a ticket to see the tourney. He didn’t know how he would enjoy the joust, the melee or the archery competition. But he would see various lords from the South in the stands. Perhaps even a few that he would recognize.

The news also comforted him, knowing that a retinue from the North would be arriving shortly. He didn’t expect Ned Stark to come south himself to pay taxes. However there was the guard sent to deliver the taxes south and he had grown quite friendly with a few of the Winterfell soldiers. Perhaps his trip back North would include strength in numbers and he could worry less about a waiting Bolton hunter to take him prisoner.

It was a sad moment when he realized that the North would always hold a little anxiety for him now. If he continued to travel alone and collect tomes, he was in danger. At least until Roose Bolton was dead, he would constantly be under the threat of kidnapping and interrogation about Ramsay’s disappearance. At least here in King’s Landing, he had anonymity. For now.

Indeed, he was left well enough alone. He explored the city at his leisure, only fending off the occasional thief who sought to lift his purse or dagger. He walked for hours, beginning at predawn and returning to the Purple Rose under a violet evening sky. And by the end of the first sennight, he felt familiar enough with King’s Landing to begin his first plan.

The early morning brought the only semblance of coolness the entire day. A crisp breeze from the Blackwater which vanished by midmorning. Tiresias savored it as he walked down to the harbor. However, instead of continuing onto the docks after he passed the gate, he turned east and began to walk along the city walls.

It wasn’t like he was alone. There were merchants and fishermen who couldn’t afford to set up shop in the city that stuck here to the stone walls, like barnacles. They didn’t even seem motivated enough to call out their goods for sale. Glancing at them, Tiresias only saw an empty weariness in their eyes.

He passed with them taking little notice and soon he was alone. He clung close to the walls. He didn’t wish to be seen, though he doubted that any patrols would be looking straight down. There was still a while to go before he was below the Red Keep. The cobblestone was beginning to disappear though, to be overtaken by sand and rock.

Eventually, he was walking on the beach, bordering the city. He took care to step on the rocks though, whenever possible. He didn’t care to leave a trail for others to follow or see later. Soon, a corner came up. Pausing, he peered around it. The Red Keep was just before him, towering over the water, its foundations built into the cliff. That cliff had a series of caves along the bottom…

Problem was, that to get there meant walking across a final beach that was very visible to the patrols above. And Tiresias had a very firm suspicion that trespassers were not allowed beyond his current location.

He had considered making the cross after sundown. But the night brought its own difficulties. The gates were all shut. The night brought out all the others who wished to sneak around the city. Which meant more patrols and more eyes watching where others shouldn’t be walking…

There was one bit of good fortune though and that was the changing of the guard. He had come this far before during the prior sennight, hiding behind the rock and observing this wall for hours. During this scouting, in the early morning, the night’s patrol was relieved by the morning patrol. It was a very casual exchange, with the night patrol seemingly eager to rest. When they saw their morning replacement approaching, they left the post prematurely. And that left a blind spot.

Due to the fact that he had no wrist-watch and he couldn’t say precisely when this blind spot occurred, he had to guess an hour after dawn. However, there was no certainty. And he was left with no choice, but to never let his eyes leave the guards.

Tiresias stood still, ever ready to move quickly, praying that this blind spot came every morning, and that it wasn’t just some one-off. He was placing quite a bit on everything falling into place.

He laughed softly at the thought. _What else was new?_

After about a half-hour or so though, his heart lifted as one guard tapped the other on the shoulder and they began to move languidly, turning their backs on the beach. Tiresias had his blind spot. He exhaled one last time, steeling himself.

_Damn it all._

He walked out, moving briskly. He still kept to the rocks and the wall as best he could. But time was now an issue. He kept his eyes forward, glancing up at the retreating guards. They were far away, but he could see them chatting, exchanging yawns.

_That’s right. Keep chatting. Don’t look back. Don’t look back._

He reached the midpoint, right under where the guard was stationed. The night patrol was completely out of sight. He had only thirty or so seconds before the morning patrol took their positions.

The caves were just ahead of him…

His legs were screaming at him to run, but he refused. He must stick to the rocks. Leave no footprints in the sand.

He held out until the last twenty feet. Breaking into a run, he threw himself around the rocks, breathing, trying to calm his racing heart.

When his pulse stopped threatening to break his skin, he peered around the corner, back at the wall. The morning patrol had arrived and taken their place. They gave no indication that they had witnessed any trespassers on the beach.

Tiresias slumped back around and took a draught from his waterskin. It felt good not to carry his rucksack around anymore. His sheath was tucked behind under his trousers. He didn’t want to leave his dagger behind in his room. But he also didn’t want to advertise it either.

Now that he had almost entirely calmed, he turned to the caves. Which cave was the one that led to the tunnels?

Careful not to break the sand and keeping to the rocky sides, he entered the first cavern and moved on when he discovered the end of it. Thankfully they weren’t too deep and the darkness didn’t bother him. However, the caves were numerous and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could spend exploring before he was forced to leave.

On the fifth cave, however, he paused. There was a familiarity to it that he liked. Was this where Euron died?

The water certainly came in deeper than the others. Not bad for an inner harbor…

Proceeding, he prowled the edges, quietening his step. He didn’t want echoes to sound in here.

His boot felt something smooth and he looked down to see the beginnings of a stone pathway. Kicking his boots against the rock to shake off any sand, he stepped onto the pathway. A small boat was indeed harbored here, tied at the end. Though by the looks and the smell, it had been for a while.

_An escape…caution from the royals…_

Tearing his eyes from the boat, he peered to the end of the cavern. Stairs ascended into the darkness. Not very welcoming, but then again, no gate barred him from entering.

Minutes passed slowly as he climbed the steps. A forest masked one’s footsteps. Everything in the forest lived and sang. A stone castle was silent and amplified every intruding sound. Tiresias walked more gingerly now than he ever did in the Lonely Hills.

But he wasn’t here for an assassination. At least not now. So his heart didn’t race and his hands didn’t shake. And he snuck relatively calmly into the depths of the Red Keep.

The darkness, already kind to his eyes, seemed to lessen as he walked farther on. Which was good, as it allowed him to focus his ears even more. He kept alert, but there were no guards around, no servants bustling about. Not even the soft patter of a little bird…

_Varys no doubt rules the underbelly of this castle. Unless of course, some other asshole came along to replace Littlefinger._

Whether or not any small spy reported to Varys or anyone else, he still heard nothing of them as the stone disappeared and his boots hit soft ground. He glanced down to see the dirt floor before looking back up.

The tunnels had ballooned into a small chamber, with a low ceiling, pillars spaced wide with stores and barrels to the sides. Tiresias recognized it immediately.

_This is where you two died. Under the collapse…and if that’s true, then you must be here as well…_

He found him a few seconds later. Stepping forward, he forgot for a moment that he was an intruder…

Balerion’s skull was as giant as it seemed in the show. As he stepped forward, he barely cleared the hollowed nose, suppressing some irrational fear that the big dragon will suddenly roar to life and crush him.

_Well, not entirely irrational. You've seen an undead dragon before._

He ran his hand slowly down a long tooth, gently prodding the tip. It wasn’t enough to break the skin, but it was still sharp. Tiresias almost whistled before stopping himself. It was beautiful.

However long he wanted to stay marveling at the Dread’s skull, the rational part of his mind pushed back. He turned his back on Balerion and headed even deeper into the castle.

_Yes, dragons are beautiful…but from a distance or when they’re dead. Another dragon will bring this fucking castle down and the rest of the city with it._

That was for another day though. Tiresias slowed as he climbed farther up. The darkness was fading quickly and so was his cover. Soon he would be exposed and with a lot more people around to see him.

Over the last few evenings, he had donned his hooded cloak and frequented the taverns near the Red Keep. He had hoped to hear lubricated gossip from at least one inebriated servant. However, to his surprise, he heard numerous recountings. One would think that the servants in the castle would stick to the wine barrels stockpiled by the royals. But in the Red Keep, they would forever be the servants, never loose or relaxed or above anyone. When they trudged out of the castle and visited the watering holes peppered around them, they could command. Politely command, but still be a hotshot for working in the castle.

On the second night, he encountered such a man. He was young, with the stench of polish on him. Tiresias smelled it especially as the man lifted his mug to toast. It cost him a good amount of coin, but he endeared himself to the man. He even put on his German accent. He was the funny foreigner. Intrigued by the castle. By the royals. By the treasures this young man was allowed to touch and polish.

It took a little under two hours of encouragement, lightly sipping his ale; but soon the young polisher was drunk and the topics turned to his work. He weaved an elaborate description of the armory, the pantry where silverware was stored and of course, the treasure room. How he was closely guarded as he handled the valuable treasures. Tiresias pressed the man as gently as he could, for as long as he could, before he asked…

“Tell me, my friend,” Tiresias said, leaning forward. “Have you ever touched Valyrian steel? In the Red Keep?”

The young man blinked, staring at Tiresias, who shrugged innocently. At this point, the man couldn’t see him through the drink. Finally, the polisher shook his head, a longing in his eyes.

“No…” he slurred, murmuring in his cup. “No…there’s no…there’s no Valyrian steel in the castle.”

“Pity,” muttered Tiresias.

“I’ve seen it once...I have. The blade…Lady Forlorn…how I’d love…love to touch it…”

One had to admire the man’s passion for beautiful steel. Tiresias quickly made his exit, but the young man was too far gone to notice. Or to remember him. The friendly funny foreigner from Myr.

His next few evenings at the taverns didn’t yield nearly so bountiful a fruit. However, he did received descriptions of the Red Keep and was able to put a decent map together in his head. He was sure if he had free rein, he would be able to get around.

However, he would never have free rein. And as he neared the ground levels of the Red Keep and hiding became near impossible, he stopped. The young man’s words rang in his head. There was no Valyrian steel in this castle. There was no dagger. Not yet. He’d have to wait until after the tourney was done. To see if the King received any prizes.

However if that happened, he would need to know a way in the Red Keep. To have a checkpoint to the caves and an exit from the castle.

Wincing as his boots hit the stone floor, he softened his step and crept to the end of a hallway. Sunshine shone on the ground beyond and he discerned a small courtyard as he neared. Halting at the corner, he peered around at the walkways that surrounded this courtyard. No one was coming and he could hear nothing from the staircase at the other end as well.

He prowled to the edge of the courtyard and peered up, before pulling back immediately. There was a small patrol of soldiers, marching along the walkway above. They wore Lannister red.

His heart was beating so fast, it almost hurt. But the soldiers above continued to patrol, no changes to their step or their light chatter. His quick peek was unnoticed.

Chancing another glance, he took in as much as he could about his surroundings; the small watchtower facing the Blackwater, the sheer wall of red that dwarfed the tiny courtyard, the configuration of stone in the courtyard. He tried to memorize every detail. Even the smell…he sniffed urgently. He could hear the soldiers began to walk down the staircase. Soon the patrol would be crossing paths with him.

He sniffed again. The stone here smelled differently than it did in Winterfell, but even so…it smelled like a privy was nearby. He hoped he was correct in assuming that. After smelling so much shit over the past sennight, it seemed like the whole city was a toilet. However he took another reluctant whiff to confirm that there was indeed a privy close.

The Lannister guard was about to round the corner in the stairs. Tiresias turned and strode quietly back to his hallway, trying to dampen the echo of his boots as he ventured back to the cellars. He reached his safe corner and leaned against the wall, breathing hard, his teeth chattering, his ears straining at the corridor.

No one was coming. No steel echoing off the stone. No one was yelling after him to halt. No one knew that he was here.

Perhaps. There were spies in the castle and most of them knew of the secret passages. He supposed he walked past dozens of peep holes in the walls. Maybe he was compromised.

All the more reason to leave now. The risk was great, but at least now he would not waste time trying to find his way back into the castle. He knew the entrance now. The cave would be there still when he would return.

He glanced down at himself. With some better clothes hopefully. He wouldn’t pass as an anonymous servant in what he currently wore.

He took one more fortifying breath and stepped back quietly to the cellars. He’d have to wait a couple more hours by the cave entrance for the next changing of the guard.

* * *

A fortnight remained until the tourney and King’s Landing seemed to grow more and more crowded by the day. None of the highborn would be arriving until another sennight, but it seemed that most merchants were following Barrock’s example; arriving early and fine-tuning their wares to be sold.

Also driving up their prices. If Tiresias was ever tempted to spend any of his purse on a souvenir, he was quickly dissuaded by the haggling. He may have paid off his lodging, but he knew from experience that traveling and cities had unexpected expenses. With that knowledge, he successfully tuned out the merchants and their shouted wares.

At least on his own behalf. Inquiring quietly, he was directed to an alley stock with goods for seamstresses. Cloths, linen, silks and sewing supplies were shouted at him as he strode for his destination. He paused in front of a stall of sewing threads. A vendor appeared from his wall of many colors, his eyes assessing Tiresias quickly.

“Sewing thread for you, my friend?”

_No…for the girl with brown eyes._

A part of him didn’t want to admit that he had made his choice. If he even had. He was willing to admit though that he wanted to buy her something. If he arrived back at Winterfell wanting her, it would do to have a gift. If not…well, he could chuck it before entering the castle.

He didn’t know how Mal would respond to this though. He eyed the rolls of thread blankly.

_What the fuck do I know about sewing threads?_

Directed to the higher quality of linen threads, he picked two of the hardest colors to come by, according to the vendor: purple and silver.

_Third roll should be her favorite color…_

With that, he completed the trio with a roll of dark green thread. Trying not to wince at the amount of coin he forked over, he packed the rolls into his rucksack and walked on. His breath was a little short and he shook his head to calm.

_Best not get carried by the romance of it all, man. You still have work to do._

That night, he gambled with slightly more reckless abandon. He needed to make up for the spent coin. He left before the other players brought out their knives, but it was close.

Besides that, however, he kept his purse closed and his spending limited. There was only one item that tempted him personally and that was fruit. Having never been so far south, it had been more than five years since he had seen such a variety of produce. The square selling them was the only place so far to blot out the all-encompassing stench of shit in this city. There were bloodoranges, pears, apricots, peaches, melons that he recognized and others he didn’t. However he still refused to touch his purse and only glanced at such succulence as he strode past.

He did resolve though, that should he make a successful wager at the joust, he would treat himself and purchase a little fruit. If nothing else, he was curious just what the difference was, between a Dornish plum and a regular one.

This morning, however, did not involve produce. Actually it involved much more expensive ware than fruit. Tiresias entered Fishmonger’s Square in the early afternoon and turned onto the Street of Steel.

It was comforting in a way. More so than the fruit market, the multitude of forges and overbearing ironworks were powerful enough to burn away the stink. True, breathing in what the forges were emanating wasn’t great, but for Tiresias, it was a relief.

An unwelcome thought that often came into his mind as he fell asleep at the Purple Rose; he had probably inhaled more microscopic fecal matter in the past fortnight here than in the past five years in Winterfell.

Thankfully sleep often interrupted that thought and the Street of Steel interrupted it now as he walked up to Visenya’s Hill. He climbed and climbed, following the steady chain of hammers and heat. The shops appeared to increase in quality the farther he ventured. If he had to guess, his destination was one of the higher-end establishments on this street. He kept walking, hoping that this was a rational conclusion.

Upon asking a passerby, he found that his suspicion proved correct. He proceeded to the very last shop, easily the largest building on the Street of Steel. Its upper story dwarfed the other smithies surrounding it and it had a large workshop in the back.

And so it was time for his second plan. He braced himself and moved around to the back, stepping out of the way of the few workers and apprentices. Though none of the boys present was the one he was searching for. Tiresias halted one who was sweeping.

“Excuse me, lad,” he said. “Is Tobho Mott in? I’d like to speak to him.”

The boy barely glanced at him, before pointing to the back. Tiresias eyed a balding man, who was standing over an anvil, smiting a slab of iron. The echoes from the hammer were quite uncomfortable.

He turned to thank the boy, but he was already back at his task. Tiresias strode forth, but kept a safe distance from the master blacksmith. He was certainly in less of a hurry than anyone else in the shop. Finally, Tobho halted his work, wiping his brow.

Taking advantage of the pause, Tiresias called. “Hello there! Are you Tobho Mott?”

Tobho turned to him, resting his hammer at his side.

“Aye,” he called. His accent was definitely Essosi, but Tiresias couldn’t identify where exactly he came from. “What do you want?”

“A moment of your time. Well, actually a bit more than that.”

Tobho’s eyes ran over him, taking in his appearance. Despite Tiresias’ best efforts, there was only so much he could do to maintain his clothes during his months in the Northern woods, a swim down the White Knife and a sail to King’s Landing. Needless to say, he didn’t look like a man who could afford Tobho’s time.

The master blacksmith clearly saw this, picking up his hammer up and continuing to smite.

“No more orders until after the tourney,” he grunted in between his strikes. “I can’t spare the work.”

“I don’t need weapons or armor or chains,” called back Tiresias, undeterred. “I simply wish to speak to you.”

Tobho continued to hammer. Wondering if this would come back to bite him, Tiresias reached into his pocket and pulled out the Stark insignia.

“My name is Tiresias. I represent Lord Stark of Winterfell,” he said, holding out the armband for Tobho to see. “My lord has questions and perhaps a proposition for you.”

The mention of a Lord Paramount was enough to pause Tobho’s hammer again. The man eyed the direwolf, mulling it over. Finally deciding it was worth investigating, he hung the hammer up.

“Farrow!” he yelled, not breaking eye contact with Tiresias. A sweating, red-faced boy came to Tobho’s side. Tobho handed the tongs over to him.

“Keep this hot. I’ll return shortly.”

Farrow took the metal with no fear of the heat. Tobho came forward, wiping his hands on his apron. He waited until he was right in front of Tiresias to speak.

“You represent Lord Stark?”

“In a way,” replied Tiresias. “Is there a place we can talk?”

Tobho nodded to the exit and they strode out of the workshop. Tiresias sighed internally in relief. It was quite noisy in there. He turned to Tobho and saw a man with limited time.

Deciding to cut to the chase, he asked, “Do you have a young apprentice here named Gendry? About twelve or thirteen years of age? Black hair?”

The blacksmith nodded slowly, suspicion creeping into his eyes. “I do. Why?”

“Lord Stark would like to take the boy to Winterfell and have him continue his apprenticeship there.”

Whatever Tobho expected to say, it wasn’t that. The blacksmith, to his credit, maintained his composure.

“May I see that armband of yours?”

Tiresias handed it over. Tobho felt it for all of two seconds before handing it back. 

“You could have gotten that anywhere.”

“I could have,” said Tiresias with a shrug. “But as it so happens, Sansa Stark, his daughter, made that for me. I’ve carried it all over.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Tobho. “Without a formal request with a seal and signature from Lord Stark, my answer’s no,” He was already turned halfway back to the workshop. “If you’d excuse me, Tiresias, I have knights waiting for their armor.”

“Master Mott,” said Tiresias, determined to keep his voice calm. “Lord Stark does not wish to put this request into writing. Due to the boy’s father, if Gendry decides to come to Winterfell, he will have to do so quietly.”

Tobho froze and turned back to him, his face a mask.

“However, this isn’t Lord Stark wishing to rob you of an apprentice. He realizes that you were paid to teach the boy and he’s more than willing to recompense the Lord who patronized him. And you as well, should you seek it.”

The mask on Tobho’s face remained as the blacksmith stepped back to Tiresias. His eyes flitted past Tiresias to the street and then behind him.

“There’s no one here with me,” said Tiresias. He was confident about that. “I wasn’t followed.”

“You don’t know that,” said Tobho, his voice low. “If you assume so, you’re clearly a stranger in this city.”

Tiresias waited out that last comment. Finally Tobho spoke again.

“I was paid twice my usual fee to apprentice the boy. The lord who paid brought the boy along with the gold.”

“Who?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. He was a highborn, hooded, a little fat. If you’re seeking to repay what he did, I can’t help you find him.”

“Did he smell of perfume?”

Tobho thought of it. “Mayhaps. But most lords do. And if he did, it weren’t stronger than the ironworks.”

Tiresias had another question in mind, but kept silent as Tobho continued to speak, reserving it for later.

“I took gold to apprentice the young lad. He’s been with me since he was little and his mother passed. It would be dishonorable to throw away what I promised and what I was paid for.”

Tiresias took it and nodded. “I understand.”

And he did. As disappointed as he was, he wasn’t ready or willing to steal away a child in the night. Plus, with Gendry working in the smithy for years already, the struggle probably wasn’t worth it.

And Varys did look out for him. After Robert’s death, he mobilized to send Gendry out of King’s Landing immediately. It was to the Wall, sure, but he could be intercepted should that occur.

Tiresias held out his hand. “Thank you for your time. I’ll inform Lord Stark of your decision.”

Tobho hesitated and shook the offered hand. During which, Tiresias had one more request.

“If I may, Master Mott, could I see Gendry?”

After a quick and silent debate, Tobho gestured for him to follow. They entered the shop again, walking all the way to the back. Two boys sat on a bench, hunched over finished armor, polishing it to a beautiful shine. One was blonde, the other had short black hair…

“Gendry,” called Tobho. The boy immediately looked up, pausing. “Come here. There’s a man who wants to see you.”

Gendry nodded and immediately came over. Tiresias stuck out his hand.

“Hello Gendry, my name is Tiresias. I’m from Winterfell.”

“Hello,” mumbled Gendry, looking at the offered hand. He raised his own. “Sorry, m’Lord. Dirty from the polish.”

Tiresias shrugged. “I don’t mind. I'm not a lord.”

After a bit more hesitation, Gendry took the offered hand and shook, letting go quickly. Even at twelve, he was strong and Tiresias could see how he could grow into a legitimized Baratheron, wielding the war hammer like his father.

However, that confidence wasn’t there yet and Gendry, now a boy, stood before him, nervous, waiting to be spoken to.

“Your master, Tobho Mott, is considered the most talented blacksmith in the city. Do you like being his apprentice?”

Gendry nodded. “Aye, I do. I like the forge.”

“Burns sometimes, doesn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Get used to it. Iron-kisses.”

Tiresias laughed lightly. “I like that. This is a strange question because he’s standing right here, but are you treated all right?”

This time, Gendry nodded more immediately. “Aye. I’m treated good.”

He wasn’t lying. Being an apprentice to a blacksmith, particularly one as skilled as Tobho Mott, was not an easy life. But Tobho wasn’t cruel and took his responsibilities seriously.

Tiresias nodded back. “Thank you for seeing me, Gendry. I’ll let you get back to your work.”

The boy looked to Tobho, who nodded and Gendry crossed back to the bench. Tiresias turned to walk back, but spun around.

“Forgive me, Gendry. I’m sorry, but one more question: what’s the farthest north you’ve been?”

He could feel Tobho burning a glare into him, but he focused on Gendry, the boy’s blue eyes staring at him.

“I’ve never left King’s Landing,” said Gendry. “Never been anywhere.”

That was no surprise. Traveling for leisure was not common to the smallfolk. The farthest Gendry traveled was probably from Flea Bottom, where his mother had worked in a tavern.

“Thank you, Gendry,” said Tiresias. “Have a good day.”

Tobho escorted Tiresias back through the workshop. He could sense the blacksmith hammering down his words, waiting until they were alone. Finally they exited the workshop, out of earshot of all who worked there and he spoke.

“I told you, he’s not going North,” Tobho growled low. “I swore I’d look after him.”

Tiresias cut through him, putting forth his reserved question. “Answer me this, Master Mott, do you know who the boy’s father is?”

Tobho’s frustration didn’t lessen, but an odd look came over the man’s face. Tiresias saw his eyes flicker upward. They were in the shadow of the Red Keep after all.

“No,” murmured Tiresias, answering for him. “But you do have your suspicions, aye?”

The blacksmith stepped closer, his voice dropping.

“The lord who brought the lad told me to keep quiet about it.”

“Is that why you were paid twice?”

Tobho didn’t deem to answer that. He didn’t need to. Tiresias lowered his voice as well.

“If we both know who the boy’s father is, then we know the wife and their son. You live in this city. I’m sure you’ve heard things. Would you trust Gendry’s life in their hands? Should it come to that?”

The blacksmith fixed him with a stare heavier than any hammer in his workshop. As much as he wanted to change Tobho’s mind, Tiresias recognized that he had little more to gain by staying.

He nodded to the blacksmith. “I’ll be in King’s Landing until the end of the tourney. At the Purple Rose. I bid you only to reconsider my lord’s offer. I’ll come and see you before I leave for the North.”

Tiresias shrugged and smiled as he left. “Who knows?” he called back. “Maybe I win a wager and actually be able to afford your wares.”

He didn’t have to look to feel Tobho’s eyes on his back. Staring at him until he turned a corner on the Street of Steel. Tiresias pondered the encounter all the way back to his lodgings. All things considered; it wasn’t the worse that it could have gone. He was glad Tobho had his suspicions. The man knew how to keep his mouth shut.

He hoped the man would reconsider his offer, but he doubted it. Gendry’s apprenticeship and life were decided long before he came to King’s Landing. His only hope for changing Tobho’s mind and bringing the lad out of the city to Winterfell rested on higher shoulders.

However, a small part of him hoped. Tobho wasn’t the only one eyeing him as he left the Street of Steel. He sensed another watching him. They continued to follow him as he traveled back through the city. Pausing at a tavern, he glanced back to see them, but they had vanished by that point. Like a ghost. He had his suspicions though, running through the possibilities as he ordered his first bowl of brown.

A part of him was glad to be snapped out of his pondering as he took his first bite. The bowl of brown was an acquired taste in King’s Landing. He shuddered through the first mouthful. Despite his taste buds protesting, he continued to eat. He couldn’t afford to waste food. Or anything resembling food.

* * *

In the sennight following his conversation with Tobho Mott, he was followed. Always a light patter of feet, never confronting, just observing. Tiresias resisted the urge to try and catch the onlooker. There was no need to question them. He already had a pretty good idea who was spying on him. In fact, he expected the scrutiny after inquiring about a King’s bastard. It was why he snuck inside the Red Keep beforehand. It was why he bought his gift for Mal before then. He didn’t want eyes over his shoulder for that personal venture.

However, he didn’t let the scrutiny deter him from wandering the city. Since he essentially had to wait for others to make a move before he could continue, he embraced his inner tourist and hiked through every nook and cranny he could find in the city. The weather was not in the dead heat of the summer, but it was still too warm for his fur jacket. He put up with the cloak, if only to shield his purse and his sheath.

There was nothing else in his rucksack to draw attention. Except maybe the threads. But he could excuse that, say they’re for the Stark girls. Trusting that, he exited the Purple Rose every morning and surrendered the contents of his room to a potential search. He strode across to the square to a bakery for a quick breakfast, greeting the baker and his daughter by name at this point. Afterwards, he ventured into the city, his nose wrinkling, though the smell of shit became a little less offensive with each new day.

His exploration often led him to becoming lost, but he never worried about it. If he started to try and find his way back in the late afternoon, he was fine. By this point, he knew the basic layout of the city. He strolled through marketplaces, squares, and one morning, though completely by accident, the Street of Silk on his way to the dragonpit. Thinking that the street was home to the silk merchants of the city, he quickly realized his mistake when he witnessed the ladies outside in varying degrees of undress, calling to him and all other passing men.

Determined not to be embarrassed, he continued forward, eyes off the brothels, waving off invitations and exaggerated flatteries. He hoped he was polite about it. At the same time, he was grateful for the businesses he passed. It would do to distract any eyes that followed him from the Street of Silk on his way to the dragonpit.

It was a different route than the characters took in the show. Though he supposed that the highborn wouldn’t walk through the street lined with brothels. Except perhaps Tyrion. Eventually the calls and sounds of the Street of Silk faded and for the first time since he entered the city, a silence fell. A wall of stone quickly became apparent and he found a small archway.

Walking briefly in darkness, he came upon an entrance to the pit. He stepped forward, his eyes glinting against the sun. It shone upon the centerstage, where the wight ran at Cersei, where Bran was crowned. He turned to the top of the collapsed wall, where Drogon would land and Daenerys would dismount.

His eyes scanned the rest of the pit and confirmed that he was truly alone. He didn’t know whether or not to be surprised at that. On one hand, it was obviously a site deemed worthy of war councils. On the other, it was a ruin without any attempt to preserve it and Tiresias remembered how a neglected ruin was treated. It was a memory from his previous life. The same bleak, resigned sadness that accompanied him to European ruins, thousands of years old, were here now, as he took in the surrounding stone.

After standing on the stage for a while and getting nothing from it, he wandered back to the entrance archways, kicking gently, looking…

He found it shortly, a short jawbone entwined in the weeds. Leaning down to grab it, he stopped, realizing he probably shouldn’t touch it without gloves. He contented him to merely gaze at it, the last of the dragons in Westeros. So far. Quite a difference between this jawbone here and Balerion's skull underneath the Red Keep.

As pitiful as it was to see how small the last dragons truly were, he couldn’t help but think that these dragons, no bigger than rats, had no chance to bear down the city. He was grateful for that. He wondered how he would feel if Daenerys Targaryen should land again in these ruins for a council. Drogon with Rhaegal, and perhaps Viserion, should he not be slain. Would he be eyeing this same small jawbone in regret? Relief?

Ultimately though, there’s only so much one can do in a ruin. Tiresias sat in the shade and took in the silence for as long as he could before getting up and departing. The empty silence of the dragonpit stayed with him as he wandered back into the city, welcoming the noise for the first time since he entered King’s Landing.

* * *

The next night, he sat in the Purple Rose, nursing an ale. It wasn’t the worse brew, truth be told. Or perhaps, he merely grew accustomed to it. He had sat in the tavern every night for the past few days, drinking at his small table. The other customers ignored him. So engrossed with the upcoming tourney, they laughed, sang, and placed a few hopeful bets on the future winners in the contests.

All in all, it was a boring scene and Tiresias found himself retiring earlier and earlier every evening. Sometimes he didn’t even bother to finish his ale.

It was coming to that point too. However, tonight he figured he would finish off his drink. He tipped his mug upward and drained the last of it.

He stilled when he set it down though. A hooded figure had paused and stood before him. Portly and bearded. His nostrils wrinkled. A whiff of perfume chased his last scent of ale.

“How do you do, my good man,” he said, nodding his head. “I hope you’ll forgive me. May I join you?”

Tiresias glanced around the tavern. Half the tables were empty. He turned back to the man and gestured for him to sit. The man bowed and did so.

“Thank you,” the portly man said, his voice light as a feather. Tiresias had to suppress a grin. He knew that light voice…

The tavern girl, Flora, came to their table.

“Another ale, Tiresias? And one for your friend?” she said, her eyes darting between them.

The man shook his head. “No, thank you, dear. I won’t be long.”

Tiresias waved it off. “Nonsense. Have one.” He turned to Flora. “On my coin.”

Flora nodded and walked off for another mug.

The man nodded to him. “I thank you…Tiresias, was it?”

Again, he had to suppress a grin. Granted, he knew exactly who sat in front of him, but even so, that wasn’t subtle at all.

“Aye, aye, that’s it,” he said, sticking out his hand. The portly man took it and he couldn’t help but notice how soft his hands were. “Tiresias, the librarian of Winterfell, at your service…so to speak.”

He let go of the hand. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

The hooded man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m not sure I quite grasp your meaning.”

Flora returned to their table with a second mug and a full pitcher. After she had topped them both, she departed quickly. Tiresias raised his mug.

“Please, I think you’d be a piss-poor spymaster if you approached me without already knowing my name, my work.” His mug remained high. “So, am I going to be cheered or will I end this evening discovering that Varys has terrible table manners?”

To his credit, Varys didn’t let his name bother him. His eyes didn’t widen in shock, but it take him another few seconds to grasp his mug and raise it. They clinked and Tiresias took a long drought. He lowered it to see that Varys had barely sipped his.

He set down his mug. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Varys?”

Interest soared in Varys’ eyes as he looked Tiresias over. Whatever he had expected coming into the Purple Rose, this wasn’t it.

“I don’t believe we met before. Am I mistaken?”

Tiresias shook his head. “Nah. But I've seen you before. Sorry about the wasted disguise. It’s rather good.”

“What gave it away?” The tone was light, but Varys didn’t look amused.

He shrugged. “Would I be wise if I gave away my secrets?”

There was no answer to that, so Tiresias took another sip before repeating his earlier question. “So again, I ask: to what do I owe this pleasure?”

The eunuch smiled slightly. “Considering that my appearance is no surprise to you, you should be able to guess the nature of my visit.”

“King Robert’s bastard.” Tiresias had to remind himself to add the title. It wouldn’t be smart to refer to Robert Baratheron in familiar terms. Not in front of Varys. Even if he was tempted to call the fat man Bobby B. “Well, I suppose I’m glad you’re still keeping an eye on the boy. It’s nice to meet his patron.”

Varys didn’t even blink. “I don’t suppose you’ll be able to divulge Lord Stark’s interest in the boy.”

Tiresias shrugged. “I reckon it it’s the same interest as yours. And mine as well. We all want to see him safe.”

“You want to take him out of the city.”

“Aye. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t done so already. I know you want to keep an eye on him or any other of the King’s illegitimate brood, but you have to admit King’s Landing isn’t the safest place for him.”

“He is a boy with no name. Merely an apprentice. Learning a valuable trade, from an esteemed craftsman.”

“He could be learning that trade in the North without a jealous queen and a sadistic prince breathing down his neck. Do you imagine Prince Joffrey taking kindly to his bastard half-brother?”

There was no reason to hint to Varys that he knew the truth of Joffrey’s birth or the rest of Cersei’s children. The spymaster and all those who knew contained the knowledge for their own benefit and purpose. If he admitted he knew the truth, he doubted he would leave King’s Landing alive.

Varys didn’t answer the question, but his eyes betrayed the truth. Tiresias leaned forward.

“There are already rumors leaking out of the Red Keep, Varys. Lord Stark had heard them in the North and I’ve heard only more since I’ve entered the city. You cannot say that the boy is safe here. Not in truth.”

He could see the spymaster placing his suspicions to the side momentarily. Tiresias gambled that a child’s safety would lead his interest and it looked to have paid off.

“When you see Lord Stark next, you may assure him that the boy’s safety is well in hand. The boy’s true parentage is quite hidden. I’m the only one in the Red Keep with that knowledge.” He raised his mug. “In fact, despite Lord Stark’s good intentions, you bring more danger to the boy than anything else. A stranger from…the North?”

Tiresias didn’t answer, but Varys pressed on.

“A stranger? Foreign, waving a lord’s insignia? Approaching a random bastard and bringing attention to him? For his safety, I suggest you stay away from the Street of Steel and don’t contact Tobho Mott again. He will not change his mind.”

“Meaning you won’t change your mind,” said Tiresias, his voice low.

“Precisely.” Varys took a sip.

“You’ve taken quite an interest in the King’s bastards, haven’t you? You’ve found them, provided for them, looked to their needs…” He leaned forward. “But you’re not the only man in King’s Landing who’s protecting them.”

Varys peered at him. “Your meaning?”

“What happens to them when King Robert dies?”

The eunuch’s nostrils flared gently, but Varys remained poised.

“Careful, my bookish friend. That could be construed as a treasonous statement.”

Tiresias shrugged. “I doubt it. It’s no crime to say a man will die one day. And as for King Robert, I fear that day will come sooner than later.”

He saw Vary raising his eyebrows and amended quickly. “I make no threat or wish against the King’s life, but he is killing himself slowly and eventually his body will give out. When that happens, and Joffrey is made King, what happens to Robert’s bastards?”

“That would depend on the discretion of His Majesty,” Varys responded lightly.

“Aye and I’m sure you’ve adhered strictly to the discretion of Majesties on all counts,” said Tiresias, with just a little too much sarcasm in his tone. He dropped it entirely for his next question.

“You say you’re the only one in the Red Keep who knows of Gendry and, I assume, the others. Does the Queen know that Robert has bastards? Even though she doesn’t know where they are or how many?”

A silence filled their table. Even the dice from the gamblers seemed to be muted.

“The Queen is aware that her royal husband frequently strays from her bed,” answered Varys. “She has her own ears and eyes throughout the Red Keep, but her web is rather limited to the castle. The smallfolk do not concern her.”

“That’s no surprise,” muttered Tiresias. “That’s your web, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“But it will be hers, won’t it? Your web and information belong to whomever sits the throne. So when she becomes Queen Regent and Joffrey King, and they demand an audit of the late King’s bastard children, what happens to them?”

Vary regarded him serenely, but remained silent. Tiresias swallowed before continuing.

“You didn’t answer my earlier question, but that’s fine. I know that the Queen knows about Robert’s bastards. She may not know where they are, but she knows there are many and will probably be more in the future.

“So she come to you for the information. Or to any others you have shared this secret with. She’ll tell Joffrey. And then they will hunt them down. Kill them in the streets. They certainly are capable.”

He knew that it was Joffrey who ordered the slaughter, but he was fine conflating the two for now. Tiresias paused for a beat; an image of Robert’s bastard babe naked before a knife flashed through his mind. He breathed slowly.

“Now you’ll probably sneak a few out before the massacre. But not all. You won’t be able to and it will look very suspicious if you’re asked for their whereabouts and you deny all knowledge.”

He leaned forward again.

“I implore you, Varys, to please reconsider and send the boy north with me to Winterfell now. Under Lord Stark’s protection. Save yourself the trouble before it’s too late and he has to be smuggled out during the King’s funeral. Of course, Lord Stark appreciates your concern and your investment in the boy. He is willing to recompense you for the coin you spent on the boy’s apprenticeship.”

He hoped Lord Stark would forgive him for that.

Vary stared at him for a solid minute and Tiresias let him. This must have been one of his strangest meetings in a while.

_Then again, I’m probably giving myself too much credit. This man has led a far more dangerous life than I so far._

Finally Varys broke his silence. “And why just this one lad to Winterfell? Why not all of Robert’s bastards? The North is certainly big enough to shelter them all.”

Tiresias leaned back again. “Certainly, but Lord Stark needs to walk a delicate line. He may have a soft spot for bastards and for the King, but he already offended his wife when he brought back a bastard from the war. Now, Gendry may not be his, but another bastard in Winterfell is a sour thing to swallow. Even a royal bastard. They would have to be a boon to the castle and Gendry shows promise in that regard as a blacksmith. It’s better than showing back up at the castle with the whole brood of screaming kids.”

He took a draught of his ale. “You’re certainly more clever and far-thinking than I am, but if you wouldn’t take offense at a suggestion…”

Vary gestured softly. “Please. By all means.”

“I would send every child away from the city. Along with the mother. And each future conquest of the King. If soon as Robert loses interest in her. I’m sure he wouldn’t miss them.”

“So when the King passes and the Queen demands my information…” Varys raised his eyebrows slowly. “I will look as though I’ve conspired to hide away Robert’s blights.”

Tiresias shrugged. “It’s no crime to send away a child. To hide the disgrace of the Crown from the capitol. You’re a clever man. I’m sure you could excuse it.”

“And what of Gendry in Winterfell?” asked Varys. “The North falls under the jurisdiction of the Crown. You believe our Queen and future King wouldn’t demand Gendry’s life from Lord Stark?”

“The North is big as you said. Gendry can hide most anywhere. And besides, Lord Stark will refuse.”

“Will the North go to war to protect a southern bastard?”

“Will the Lannisters march up through the Neck to deal with one?”

Varys smiled. “A catspaw can slip through just as well.”

“Well, however they do it, it’s more coin and effort to kill a boy a thousand miles from the capitol. If Gendry remains in King’s Landing though…” Tiresias tapped the table gently. “It’s just one simple task for the City Watch. One knife in the Street of Steel.”

He matched Varys’ smile. “Besides, if the children and their mothers are all out of the city, I’m certain you could forget quite a number of the bastards that the King beget.”

How many children did Maggy the Frog tell a young Cersei that Robert would have? Tiresias couldn’t remember the exact number, but he bet anything that Cersei did. If Varys came up short on that number, he would be placed under greater suspicion from Cersei. He hoped the Spider could survive that detail.

Something came back into Vary’s face and Tiresias exhaled softly, bracing himself. It was the same curiosity that he saw on Roose Bolton’s face not too long ago. Varys didn’t have the same menace, but he’d be a fool to think him less of a threat.

“You could have arrived in King’s Landing with the other Northerners to see to the boy,” said Varys. “They’re just more than a sennight out from the city. Why the early arrival?”

“I was already in White Harbor,” said Tiresias, not too lightly. “Seemed easier to sail down.”

“You’re a foreigner.”

It wasn’t a question. Tiresias blinked at the sudden shift. “Bit of the pot calling the kettle black, aye?”

If the saying was lost on Varys, he didn’t show it.

“Where are you from?”

It was quite warm at their little table. Tiresias forced himself not to swallow some spit.

“Essos. Same as you.”

Varys shook his head slowly. “No…” he murmured. “No. I’ve lived in cities larger than this one. I’ve heard hundreds of tongues stretching from one end of the world to the other. I can hear a little of the North in your words. Which I can understand. You have resided there for quite a number of years…”

He leaned back in his chair. “But your tongue…I can’t place it. Not anywhere in Essos at least.”

Tiresias met his eyes. “You seem quite confident about that. Essos is a big place.”

Varys smiled. “I am. So, where are you from?”

A brief silence descended on the table, with neither man in the hurry to break it. Finally Tiresias matched Varys’ smile.

“How about a wager?”

Varys raised his eyebrows at the suggestion. It was his most dramatic gesture of the evening.

“Oh…and what kind of a wager do you suggest?”

Tiresias drank his ale and leaned back. Neither of them worried about being overheard. All the other patrons were focused on the dice game near the fire. Their low voices carried just fine.

“If I can guess where you’re from, in one guess,” said Tiresias, raising a single finger. “Then you believe me when I say I’m from Essos.”

Varys smirked. “My, my, what a prize. A rather empty one, if I say so. I know you’re no Essosi. Me stating otherwise to appease a wager is quite pointless.”

Tiresias shrugged. “Mayhaps. But getting you to believe me would be a pain in my ass. I’d rather just win a wager and move on to the lad.”

The eunuch spread his hands before resting them together on the table.

“As you wish,” he said.

Allowing himself a small smile, Tiresias tapped his mug gently.

“Tell me, Varys. Was it in Lys where you were cut?”

The smirk disappeared, but to his credit, Varys hid his surprise rather well. Even Tiresias had trouble finding his true feelings. A slight tension did appear in the Spider’s shoulders though. A minuscule twitch in his resting hands.

“I lost that accent years ago,” he said, ignoring the question. That story was reserved for friends whom he trusted. His eyes were boring deep into Tiresias, trying to find something that he had missed.

Tiresias shrugged. “You’re not the only one with a good ear, Varys.”

A wild part of him wanted to drop further hints of the Spider’s origin; of the sorcerer and the voice from the flames. He was always curious what Varys heard. But he decided against that. Varys was one of the most dangerous men in the city. If not the most, since Littlefinger was disposed of. And it behooved Tiresias to pretend he was only in King’s Landing for Gendry’s safety.

Varys stared at him for a while before sipping his ale. He didn’t purse his lips at it. Tiresias supposed he had drunk far worse in his life, despite his current luxuries.

The Spider then stood, but didn’t depart. They regarded each other further before Varys spoke.

“I have much to consider.”

Tiresias nodded. “I bet you do. Will I hear from you before the tourney?”

Varys shrugged. “Mayhaps. If this tourney should end without a word from me, leave the city and don’t enter the Street of Steel when you do.”

His posture changed, his voice too as he nodded in farewell.

“Evening, Tiresias. Speaking to you has been…quite enlightening.”

And with that, Varys was gone. Onto another mission, another whisper that secured his web in the city.

Tiresias stared into his ale after Varys departed. His fingers began to tremble and it took a minute for him to still them. But it wasn’t out of fear. At least not the fear of what Varys could personally do to him, but the fear of this alternate Westeros. Despite the horror that befell the Seven Kingdoms before, he at least knew that story. This however…

He never regretted killing Littlefinger and pulling that weed before it could fester. However, he didn’t feel too comfortable allowing Varys to have complete rein over the capitol. True, the man was better than most and he had his soft side. But he could be completely ruthless as well. Was he truly doing his best to keep the realm going or was he planning for a Targaryen restoration this time around as well? He didn’t see why not.

_Not like you’re one to judge…it’s not just the big bads whom you’ve killed so far, right? Rosie, the nameless woman in Gulltown, even Rickon Stark…_

He had ended up with a kill list for himself and it would only grow longer. No names could be struck off. Once they were on, they remained forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so that's the first part of King's Landing. Next Tuesday will bring Chapter 27!
> 
> Now for some sobering news. I do have a few more completed chapters and three or more that I'm currently working on. I've decided that instead of holding onto those in-progress chapters as part of the next 100k word writing spree, I would work on them and publish them sooner. Then I would start the 100k writing spree. This is assuming that I can't get them to a point when I'm satisfied with them when it comes time to publish them.
> 
> That being said, I'll give you a fair warning beforehand. Have a good week!


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Tiresias continued to explore King’s Landing over the following sennight. Of course, not all of his wanderings ended in such dour locations such as the dragonpit. Even if he recognized a section of the city that rioted or burned, he never could feel totally down. It helped that every evening on his way back to the Purple Rose, he would stop at a different tavern. He made new friends at each location, far drunker than him, who promptly forgot him hours later when he departed. Perhaps they could sooner learn his face if he gambled, which he did a couple of times throughout the sennight, winning back what he had spent in the last few days.

Overall, the mood of the people on the street seemed to heighten as well. It wasn’t just the economic boom that the tourney brought. It was a sport, an event, and though they may resent the highborn deep down for their obscene wealth, it was a rare man who couldn’t resist the latest rumor from the upcoming tourney. Tiresias heard of the many knights and highborns who were entering. Of the dishes commissioned. Of the tourney grounds being constructed outside the King’s Gate.

As the tourney neared, more and more nobles appeared in the city and he was treated to their splendor as they arrived. They usually marched through the city gates in the early afternoon. Word of their approach in the mornings spurned Tiresias to the respective city gates to watch them pass.

Most of the nobles he didn’t recognize. Many of them weren’t nearly as handsome as the main cast on the show. However, his stomach lurched one day to hear of the Tyrells’ imminent arrival from the Reach. Knowing the way well by now, he headed to the River Gate, as they would be arriving by the Roseroad. With his above-average height, he didn’t have to fight for a view. Positioning himself near an alley entrance, he heard the retinue approach.

Heralds trotted ahead, calling for the smallfolk to clear the streets, which no one bothered to protest. It was rather efficient, as the streets emptied just in time to be occupied by the Tyrells, their green and gold banners blanketing the road.

Tiresias chewed his jerky and tried to stop his hand from twitching. Rows of soldiers passed…to be succeeded by a fat man with the most openly friendly face he’d seen in Westeros so far.

He laughed softly as the man passed, waving merrily to the crowd.

“Hello, Mace,” he muttered, giving the man a covert wave back. He was a rich fool. But at least he wasn’t malevolent. Only a cover for the real power of House Tyrell.

Whom, he guessed, was now riding past in the following carriage. It was ornate, impressively crafted and was surrounded by the most burly guards in their company.

Tiresias looked on, mildly disappointed that he couldn’t see Olenna Tyrell and probably Margaery as they entered the city, but no matter. They were better off if he let them alone for now. Besides, he was just a poor stranger in King’s Landing. Barely better than a peasant. He wasn’t speaking to any noble soon.

The lack of Loras Tyrell in their company further confirmed one thing to Tiresias. The Knight of Flowers was already in the company of Renly Baratheon. They both probably resided in the Red Keep. He had already heard gossip that Loras Tyrell planned to ride in the joust.

The retinue had passed completely and the streets returned to normal. He stuffed the rest of his jerky in his mouth and walked on.

If Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon were lovers now, then the same consequence was likely. Should the South erupt again into war over the succession of the Iron Throne, Loras would be there to suggest Renly’s claim and push House Tyrell into an alliance with the youngest Baratheon. He hated the fact that he wished the two had never met. God knows two Westerosi men in love needed all the happiness they could receive. Still, he wished there was some way he could influence the Flowers of Highgarden to stay out of the shitshow that was coming. That was Olenna's original opinion on the matter. Perhaps if he could meet her sometime, tell her to pull Loras from King's Landing…

He snorted at the thought. Influencing Olenna Tyrell was well beyond his capacity, now and probably forever. Lord Stark only heeded his counsel because of his frankness and his knowledge about Lyanna. He doubted the same would work for the Queen of Thorns.

However, it was still a ways away. He put it out of his mind and simply enjoyed the pageantry. Other houses came through the city gates over the next few days. The Tullys and the other Riverland houses through the Gate of the Gods on the Kingsroad from the north. The yellow banners of Stannis Baratheon arrived from Dragonstone, anchoring in Blackwater Bay, as well as the Royces and the other Valemen who sailed from Gulltown. Other nobles from the Reach came through the River Gate. Tiresias witnessed an ever humorless Randyll Tarley lead his retinue, their banners featuring a prominent red archer. A tall and armored, but still young boy rode beside him.

Tiresias wasn’t surprised to see Dickon and not Samwell. He hoped Sam was enjoying the month or so without his father at Horn Hill. It would only be a short relief in the years before he was forced to renounce his titles and join the Night’s Watch.

Resisting the childish notion to spit after the stern lord, Tiresias turned and proceeded to the other side of the city. According to Mikal the innkeeper, the real power in Westeros was due to arrive in a matter of hours.

Sure enough, as the afternoon turned into evening, Tiresias witnessed the largest company of soldiers by far enter the city. Through the Lion Gate, funny enough, a red sea of banners trotted efficiently. They didn’t have to clear the streets though. King’s Landing remembered what happened during the rebellion when the Lannisters entered the city.

Tiresias was actually one of the only people who remained outside to watch the parade. He stood out more than he wished and was tempted to hide himself. However, he rooted his feet and stayed, taking in the impressive might of the richest family in Westeros.

_Seemingly the richest_, he corrected himself. _Their last mine will run dry soon. What position will they claim then?_

Probably the same. They still looked powerful. After a solid minute of the Lannister guard riding past, Tiresias received his first look at the Old Lion.

Tywin Lannister rode a horse that seemed as tall and as powerful as himself. His eyes remained fixed and Tiresias followed them all the way to the Red Keep, glinting in the sunset.

_You certainly know what you want, old man. _

Turning back, he studied the lion’s face as long as he could before he rode past. He doubted Tywin Lannister felt any discomfort entering the city he sacked. Indeed, he didn’t even glance to the side to view any remaining gawkers.

Maybe he was just used to be viewed as such. High, powerful, rich…untouchable.

He certainly acted as such, keeping his head high and focused on the castle ahead. It was common gossip that Ser Jaime Lannister was favored to win the joust. His father was certain to bring all of the glory of Casterly Rock to the capitol. For the victory of his golden child. Nothing else in the city mattered as much for him. Certainly not the piercing gaze of a stranger. He rode quickly past the alleyway where Tiresias stood. He smirked at the back of the man’s head.

_That’s right. Ride past. Ignore me. I’m nobody. Absolutely nobody._

Recognizing the smugness, he suppressed the feeling as quickly as he could. That kind of attitude would get him killed. If he loved being anonymous so much, it wouldn’t do to smile like a jackass in public.

_Or interest the royal spymaster…even if you do need him to get Gendry out…_

Turning his face back to neutral, he observed the rest of the retinue. Kevan Lannister rode next to his son, Lancel, though it took him a few blinks to recognize the lad. He had the same pout on his lip.

Afterwards, it was only soldiers and stewards. Soon the Lannisters had passed and he was left with an empty street. He looked to the gate, a little forlorn. No Northerners had entered the city yet. That thought filled him with more sadness than he thought. He missed Winterfell. He missed those inside. The children, the library, the coolness of the wind, the strong brown eyes…

He shook his head. It was only another sennight until the tourney began. He could wait. King’s Landing still had many secrets to unfold.

Exhaling, he entered a tavern near the Lion Gate. He hadn’t been to this one before. He would risk winning a few silver moons tonight, along with eating whatever they passed for meat in their pies.

* * *

It wasn’t just the rich retinues of the highborn that called his attention. It was also the rich buildings of the city. Or which ones he could get a possible closer look at. As opposed to his modern days of walking through a medieval city, there weren’t many places he could just enter as a sightseer.

The Sept of Baelor was such a place. He came to the massive stairway that led to the ornate church of the Seven. About halfway up, he noticed that the entrance was guarded by the City Watch. He halted on the steps as more than one turned their head to him.

In that moment, it became abundantly clear that this was no Targaryen ruin that was open to any jerk off the street. He ran through his mind and realized that he never actually saw any smallfolk in the Sept before. Not that he could remember.

He wasn’t near enough for the guards to tell him off, but he knew, based off their energy, that he was not welcome to enter.

Seeking no fight in this city, he turned and made his way down without another word. Coming to the bottom of the steps, he wandered around the Sept and came to the statue of Baelor. A chill came over him as he scanned the square. It wasn't empty, but this crowd was simply going about their day. They weren’t cheering for the Warden of the North to lose his head. They weren’t hiding his youngest daughter. They weren’t witnessing the beginning of a massive war…

Someone bumped into him and he recovered just in time to seize the young boy’s arm. The boy turned to him, fear in his eyes. Tiresias jerked the boy close.

“My purse. Now,” he whispered fiercely.

The boy instantly surrendered it and ran as Tiresias released him.

He attached the purse back to his belt, laughing softly to himself. The boy did have an impressive hand for thievery. It didn't relax his mood though. He held his breath and let it go on a count.

He needed a drink.

Unable to be too picky, he walked across the square to a tavern with outdoor tables. Most of which were full. He found an empty end of a bench and ordered a cup of wine. As tempted as he was not to face the statute and the Sept, he didn’t like putting his back to the square. So he sat, reliving the scene of Ned’s beheading again and again as laughter and cheers surrounded him from the full tables.

Had he done enough to prevent the death of Ned Stark in this city? He told the Warden explicitly to stay in the North. He supposed it depended whether or not he could resist the King, if he should still come north to bring his best friend to the capitol. He wondered if Jon Arryn would survive longer without Littlefinger in King’s Landing. He wondered about the potential engagements. He wondered whether Mance had come to Castle Black yet…

Lowering his head, he rubbed his temples. He wondered too much. And he couldn’t stop. Another thought came to his mind. Another man who met his end near the Sept. Or rather in it.

The serving girl appeared before him with the wine. He could smell the sourness of it already.

“Here,” she said quickly, depositing it before turning to leave.

“Excuse me, miss,” he called.

The serving girl turned back. “Aye?”

He glanced to the Sept of Baelor, towering over the surrounding buildings, before coming back to her.

“Do you know of anyone named the High Sparrow?”

“Wot?” she responded, a hint of impatience in her tone. He didn’t hold it against her. The tourney was days away and the tables were full of customers willing to part with their coin. She didn’t have time for strangers with strange questions.

“He’s a septon. Runs a kitchen for the unfortunate. Doesn’t wear shoes.”

The girl’s eyes only squinted further. Tiresias shrugged.

“A little grimy?”

A table across from him called for more ale. The serving girl nodded to them, before turning back to Tiresias.

“Never heard of him,” she said as she strode back to fetch a full pitcher.

Tiresias took a sip of the sour wine. It wasn’t the first time he had inquired about the High Sparrow. He had asked discretely every evening or so, in a different part of the city, in the taverns in between games and drink and all he received were blank looks. No one had heard of the cunning old fanatic. Apparently he hadn’t come to King’s Landing yet.

Maybe it would only be as the war ravaged the countryside and more smallfolk were displaced. He’d come to King’s Landing then. But where was he now? It certainly didn’t help that he was probably lying about his origins or that he was so vague with them. A cobbler? A son of a cobbler? Now a septon? Was he in the Stormlands? The Riverlands? The Vale? Did it matter?

Tiresias grimaced through another swallow. Probably not. And in any case, there wasn’t a point. Perhaps if he came to King’s Landing again, he’d find him. But at the same time, he’d consider it a blessing if he never saw the High Sparrow. Sure, the old man had some good points about the exploitation of the smallfolk, but religious fanatism was something best left alone. He certainly didn’t want the man entering the politics of the South.

_So what? Another assassination? Just kill him? Is that your solution now to everything?_

He lowered his head, slightly ashamed that he didn’t dismiss the idea right away. What the hell was he becoming?

Fortifying himself, he swallowed the last of his wine in two big gulps, dregs and all.

* * *

It was finally the day that Tiresias had been waiting for. He stood by the Gate of the Gods, waiting for the Northern retinue to arrive with the tax payments. Resisting the urge to exit the city to meet them on the road, he rooted himself to the ground and marked the time.

Gossip put their arrival in only a few hours. He had a feeling though that it would be an early arrival. Sure enough, shouts from the top of the gate announced the arrival of the Stark men. It took another ten minutes, but he finally heard their horses trotting. As far as retinues for the Lord Paramount Houses went, it was easily the smallest. He estimated only twenty horses and two wagons. He supposed that made sense. They traveled the farthest and they weren’t coming to participate in the tourney. Practicality over pageantry.

Soon, they came into sight. Tiresias instantly spotted the familiar face of Jory Cassel, leading the group. He was sweating profusely and his nose was wrinkled, the smell of the city hitting him hard. He wasn’t the only one. Most of the soldiers were trying to keep stoic, but were cracking.

Tiresias grinned like an idiot. The Northern soldiers were a tough lot. But put them in the heat and the stink and they’ll break.

He realized that he was far too judgmental, that he reacted the same as he first entered King’s Landing, but he didn’t care. His joy doubled as he spotted Gord’s big frame. For the first time in five months, he saw people he knew.

The horses slowed to a walk. Their riders weren’t familiar with the city. Tiresias stepped forward from the crowd, walking alongside gently as not to frighten the horses.

“Jory,” he called. “Jory Cassel.”

Jory turned and did a double take. He meant to get off his horse, but Tiresias shook his head and just kept walking beside him. Jory adjusted back into his saddle.

“Tiresias? Gods, man. It’s been an age!” Jory said, looking down at him. “How long have you been here?”

Tiresias shrugged. “Month or so. How was the journey down here?”

“Long,” responded Jory curtly. He looked around before turning back to him. “You met some bandits up North?”

Tiresias kept his face straight. “How did you know that?”

“Lord Stark told me. He received your note. We’re supposed to escort you back when we return.”

“All of you for little old me?”

“South with the taxes. North with the bookworm.” Jory shrugged. “Just not supposed to leave King’s Landing without you, is all.”

Tiresias smiled. A true, genuine smile. “Well, I appreciate it.”

He heard large feet hit the ground behind him and turned to see Gord coming up him.

“You bastard!” he said, hugging Tiresias tightly before letting him go and giving him a light punch on his shoulder. “The fuck you’ve been doing here?”

“Waiting for you to show. Should’ve known it’ll take this long, with you coming.”

“Piss off!” Gord said, laughing. He placed his arm around Tiresias’ shoulder as they walked. He coughed as he breathed in. “Gods, this place reeks of shit. How long have you been here?”

“A month,” muttered Jory, his eyes forward on the road. Gord looked to him and back to Tiresias.

“A month?” he repeated as he shook his head. “How do you stand it?”

“You get used to it,” Tiresias said. “You’re staying in the Red Keep, aye?”

“Aye,” Jory confirmed. “Lord Stark was reserving rooms for us in the city when he received a personal invitation from the King for him and any of his house to stay in the Red Keep.”

“Fancy that, Tiresias,” Gord laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “A sennight in the Red Keep. For one sennight, Gord and all these shitkickers will sleep like kings.”

Tiresias chuckled. “Well, the smell of shit will be a little better in the castle from what I hear.” He turned back to Jory. “A sennight though? So you’re staying for the tourney?”

Jory nodded. “Just for the joust. Lord Stark agreed to it. Nothing’ll be held like it in the North, so he agreed to it. We have invitations, but as there’s no highborn in our ranks, we’ll be in the lower stands.”

“Fine by us,” said Gord. “We can drink, swear, scratch our balls. Be complete mongrels…”

“Gord…” Jory muttered in a low warning tone.

“Aye, aye,” said Gord, waving it off. “Completely polite and civilized mongrels.”

Tiresias started to laugh. Gord gave him one last side hug, before releasing him.

“There’s that laugh! I’m glad to see you, Tiresias. Foreign prick that you are.”

“Cheers, Gord,” Tiresias responded.

“It’s true,” said Gord. His tone became a little airy. “Not be the only one, either.”

Tiresias remained silent, refusing to take the bait. Gord didn’t care though.

“You know, yeh be pushing this deal of yours far. If we’re not back in Winterfell in a month, which we won't, it’d be more than half a year.”

Tiresias stared at him. “How do you know about that?”

“Ginn’s my wife, you dolt.”

Cursing himself silently, Tiresias focused back on the Red Keep. They were about a quarter of the way by now.

"Fine, stay mum." Gord leaned in. “All I'm saying is, you best have some mighty good horseshit to sell her when we return.”

Jory spoke up. “That’s enough, Gord. Leave him be. We still need to return in one piece.”

Grateful for the save, Tiresia turned to Jory. “Will I be able to enter the Red Keep with you?”

Jory looked surprised at the question. “You should be. You’re a man of House Stark as we are and the King is insistent that he host us. We’re sharing rooms, but I’m sure we can find you a space…”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Tiresias. “I already have accommodations in the city. The Purple Rose inn. I just wanted to see the joust. And use the library as well.”

Jory stared at him. He could feel Gord’s bewildered look as well. “You don’t want to sleep in the Red Keep?”

Tiresias shook his head. “Little fancy for my taste.”

They entered the main thoroughfare that led directly to the Red Keep. Other streets from the main gates in the city merged into this thoroughfare. To his right, Tiresias heard another company coming. From the direction of the Lion Gate…

“Halt your horses,” he said.

“What? Why?” asked Jory.

“Another company is coming and they’re not slowing. Halt them now!”

Jory turned and gave the order, just before a larger company came billowing down from the west. A single banner led them. A yellow banner with three black dogs…

“Fuck me…” breathed Gord, as the rest of the company came into view.

Tiresias couldn’t blame him. He had encountered taller men before, but nothing prepared him for seeing the Mountain on his giant destrier. Ser Gregor Clegane pounded the streets as he rode for the Red Keep. Aside from the one banner, there was no vanguard to clear the way and the citizens scattered to make room for him and his men.

He didn’t wear his full armor and Tiresias caught a look at his face. Once he saw it, he couldn’t look away. The Mountain’s eyes were pitiless and focused on the Red Keep and the prize purse he sought.

_I didn’t think…of course, he would be here…and if so…_

Thankfully neither Ser Gregor nor his men spared any glances their way. They rode straight past and the Stark company was left in the silence that followed. Quickly though the streets recovered and people went back to their business. Jory gently kicked his horse and they carried on.

Gord spat on the ground. “Raping, murdering fucker.”

“Care to say that to his face?” asked a soldier from the back.

“Oh fuck off, Gerard!” Gord growled. Tiresias had never seen him this angry before. “We’re all thinking it.”

“Aye, we are,” said Jory, emanating his uncle’s authority naturally. “But we’re not here to say or start anything. We’re guests of the King. As is Gregor Clegane. We deliver the taxes. We watch the joust. We cheer and we go home. Is that too much for you men to handle?”

The men murmured an assent. Jory looked down to Gord, who shook his head.

“Nay, Commander, it’s not.” He looked aside to Tiresias, who stared ahead unblinking after the Clegane retinue. “You all right?”

Tiresias didn’t answer. He was barely listening. The beginnings of another plan were brewing in his mind. Another opportunity. If only he could pull it off…

“Tiresias, you all right, mate?” Gord asked again, patting him on the shoulder.

He came to, but didn’t take his eyes from the Red Keep. “Aye, Gord. I’m fine.” He shrugged. “Just one big fucker, eh? Bigger than you.”

“Aye,” murmured Gord darkly. “The hell he’s doing anyway? Coming into the city this late? Lord Tywin already arrived, aye?”

“Ser Gregor’s not one for social graces,” muttered Tiresias. “He rarely leaves his land except for combat and tourneys. I’d wager he waited until the last minute to leave his domain.”

“Bet the whole damn keep sighs in relief when he’s gone,” muttered Gord. None of the men present disputed that or said anything else for that matter. In fact, the appearance of the Mountain Who Rides silenced them all for the rest of their journey to the Red Keep.

The murmurs of the smallfolk ceased around them as they crossed the bridge into the castle. The Gold Cloaks briefly questioned Jory before waving them on. As they passed under the gate, Tiresias looked up, squinting against the bright spring sky. He could feel the heat emanating from the red brick. It seemed less tall here than on the beach.

_Obviously, you idiot. _Tiresias lowered his head to take in his first actual welcome to the Red Keep.

It was a small mercy that when they entered the welcoming courtyard, Ser Gregor and his retinue had already departed for their chambers. Tiresias stood back and let Jory handle their arrival. A young guard spoke to a steward and once they had removed their personal belongings, their horses were escorted to the stables.

That left them with the chests full of coin for taxes. Jory turned to them.

“All right, men,” he said, with a smartass cheer. “Who’s ready for some exercise?”

Ultimately though they didn’t have to carry the chests all the way to the Master of Coin, thankfully. Someone procured a series of trolleys and they stacked the chests on top. They didn’t leave the trolleys though, despite the steward’s pledge that it would be delivered. Jory’s instructions were to not let this payment out of his sight until the Master of Coin himself personally accounted for it and provided him with a receipt for the records.

As Jory and a few selected soldiers escorted the coin, Tiresias stayed behind with the other men. Cups of water were brought to them. They sat in the shade for a good hour before a steward with neat hair appeared before him.

“Men, your quarters are prepared. If you’d follow me please…”

The quarters consisted of four rooms in the Outer Hold with five cots apiece. Tiresias let the rest of the men enter before seeing for himself. Gord claimed a bed by the door, sitting on it and bouncing to test it. He turned to see Tiresias leaning against the doorframe and grinned.

“Sure we can’t tempt you, Tiresias? Kipping on the floor? Sharing some air with the five of us?”

Tiresias snorted. “I’m sure. Besides, for what I paid, I might as well stay in the city.”

Gord shrugged, laughing lightly. “Suit yourself. I’m enjoying this castle when I can. Gods willing, I’ll never have to come down south again to fetch you.”

His ears perked at approaching footsteps. Grateful for an excuse not to retort, Tiresias turned to see Jory coming this way, escorted by another steward.

Jory stopped in the hallway, calling out. “All right, lads. Eyes and ears now.”

All the soldiers exited into the hallway, giving Jory the requested attention.

“Before we all start drinking and gambling and being the respectful guests we are, we’re still the representatives of House Stark and the North. Court’s in session now and we’re due to announce our arrival and pay our respects. I need four volunteers.”

Four men stepped forward. Gord remained back. Jory nodded.

“All right. You lot tighten your uniforms and stand straight. Keep your hands off your weapons and prepare to kiss an arse or two. With all respect, of course.”

After five minutes of everyone doing their best to look presentable, they fell into formation and followed the steward as they marched into the main keep, toward the Great Hall.

Tiresias followed behind them. He hadn’t really asked if he could join them, but Jory didn’t protest. His dagger was sheathed on his front. No one had bothered to check him for a weapon and he doubted anyone saw him as dangerous. However wishing to avoid any misunderstanding, he had adjusted his sheath to make his blade visible before they set to march through the castle.

On the way, he kept an eye out for the same courtyard that he came upon when he snuck up from the cellars. He had to make sense of the geography of this place very quickly. The drunken babbling of the servants was not all-encompassing.

Just as the smallfolk were replaced by guards and stewards as they entered the Red Keep, the guards and stewards were replaced with the murmurs and chatter of the highborn as they entered the inner part of the castle. The nobles seemed to join their direction as they turned the corner and spotted two large doors in the middle of the corridor.

Tiresias steeled himself.

_Come on, man. You’ve been inside of cathedrals and castles before. You can do this._

However not of these medieval structures played host to a real court in his old world. None that Clark had witnessed during his travels. They turned into the Great Hall. And Tiresias felt a tingle run up his spine.

The last time he saw the Throne Hall, it was destroyed by dragonfire. It was whole now with radiant light that streamed through the stained glass windows. A sea of nobles filled the room. Tiresias thought his nose would burn with so many perfumes mixing with each other. The fabrics too…he hadn’t seen this much expensive material in ages. Not in this world certainly.

But even the richest cloth in the world couldn’t keep Tiresias’ eyes from the other end of the room. The Iron Throne sat cold and heavy. It was also empty. A simple wood chair was positioned in front and below. An old man sat upon it. Even from this distance, Tiresias saw the pin glint on his chest from the sunlight.

Despite his age, Jon Arryn seemed spry. He could see why his sudden death caused a wave of suspicion throughout the capitol. With the absence of King Robert, Jon Arryn greeted all arrivals, taking their requests, their questions without a moment of hesitation. Apparently he was used to running court without the King present.

Occasionally, he turned to his side to address the hunched over Maester Pycelle, who stood by his side to offer a word of his own. Tiresias realized his fists were clenched and shook them out.

“Anything wrong?” asked Jory, catching the movement in his periphery.

Tireisas shook his head. “Nah.”

Suppressing any feelings he had about the Maester, he lowered his voice and turned to Jory.

“I need a favor.”

Jory’s eyes remained front. “Aye?”

“Could you ask the Lord Hand if he’d permit the donation of a few tomes to the Winterfell library?”

That caused the young guard to turn to him. “Does Lord Stark know of this request?”

“Nah, but I won’t be back here for a while. If I’m back at all.” He met Jory’s incredulous eyes. “What? Can’t hurt to ask.”

“You can ask him yourself if you want. You’re part of the Winterfell retinue. You can speak.”

“Jory, for the last month, I have had naught but endless inquisition about my accent, how I talk, where I’m from. And I’m very tired of it.”

Tiresias didn’t have to fake his frustration too much. His accent became a boring talking point years ago. At least in Winterfell, where everyone was used to him. Here in King’s Landing, in his evenings at the taverns, it was half the conversation.

He sighed. “Please just ask on my behalf.”

“Fine,” said Jory, turning to the Lord Hand. It was their turn.

The herald announced them. Or rather just Jory by name. They approached Jon Arryn, halting the appropriate distance before him. Tiresias thanked whomever was listening that Robert wasn’t in the room. Because the King wasn’t present, there was no need to kneel. The court was content with a short bow from them all.

“My Lord Hand,” said Jory, straightening. “Thank you for welcoming me and my men to the Red Keep. The taxes for this year from the North have been delivered in full to the Master of Coin. With all that out of the way, my men eagerly await the tourney, thank the Crown for such entertainment and above all, wish Prince Joffrey a very happy nameday.”

Knowing of the Crown’s increasing deficit, Tiresias wondered if anyone else in the throne room could discern the stress in Jon Arryn’s face. He wondered who the Master of Coin was anyway, with Petyr Baelish dead. He didn't envy him, whoever he was. This tourney was going to cost a fortune. He didn’t even want to think about how much additional food the North could import with that money.

Not wishing to showcase that sour thought, Tiresias exhaled through his nose, bringing his face to neutral. He caught Jon Arryn doing the same.

“The Crown thanks you for your well-wishes and is always glad to host the men of House Stark. As for the taxes, I’m sure that everything is quite in order.” The Lord Hand smiled. “Lord Eddard was quite prudent about these matters, from what I remember.”

Genuine affection colored the man’s voice. Tiresias couldn’t help but stare. It was strange to see Jon Arryn in this state. Last time, he was quite dead with stones covering his eyes.

“You’re the nephew of Ser Rodrik Cassel, yes?” asked Jon Arryn. “How does he fare these days?”

“He fares well, my Lord Hand,” responded Jory. “Quite hale and as strict as he ever was in the training yard.”

Jory and Lord Arryn spoke a minute more. Tiresias suspected that the Lord Hand was relieved to have some connection to his former charge. It gave the man some life in the long days of welcoming the far reaches of Westerosi nobility to the capitol.

Whatever the reason, the conversation turned borderline casual and Tiresias turned his ear to the crowd. Jory wasn’t a presence that would halt whispers and right now, the light conversation taking place wasn’t enough to hold the full attention of the court. Lord Stark paid his taxes. A master-of-arms still breathes. The Lord Hand is nostalgic. Nothing of noteworthy value to the murmuring masses.

As such, Tiresias didn’t blame the court for turning their attention away. However, he brought his own back just in time to hear Jory speak.

“If it pleases the Crown, my Lord Hand, we have another request.”

Jon Arryn nodded, gesturing for Jory to continue.

“Winterfell is currently revitalizing the literary history of the North and placing a great effort in expanding its library. If the Red Keep has any tomes they would be willing to part with, Winterfell would be most grateful.”

Maester Pycelle came to life for the first time since Jory stepped forward. “Revitalizing the Northern literary history?”

If Jory heard the skepticism in the maester’s words, he didn’t show it.

“Aye, Grand Maester. It’s been a long time coming. Tomes have been gathered from all over the North. Consolidated and archived in the walls of the most impregnable castle north of the Neck.”

“How long has this venture been underway?” asked Lord Arryn.

Jory considered it. “Five years, I’d say. This man…” He gestured to Tiresias, who felt the instant rush of eyes snapping to him. Those that were still listening. “This man has traveled all across the North to gather the materials. He’s traveled here in hopes that the Red Keep would be so generous as to consider the request.”

Lord Arryn turned to him. “What is your name?”

He could have cursed Jory Cassel. Announcing himself at the Royal Court was not his idea of a low profile. However he had no choice now. He stepped forward.

“Tiresias, my Lord Hand,” he said. “I’m the librarian at Winterfell.”

He gave a respectful, but short bow. Luckily most of the court were too preoccupied with their own business to give heed to this modestly-dressed stranger. The throne room was so big, that most couldn’t even hear his unfamiliar accent.

Lord Arryn certainly did though. His eyes sharpened as Tiresias spoke. However, he was polite enough to press on.

“And what would you seek from the Red Keep’s library?”

Tiresias swallowed. “Nothing that the Crown wouldn’t be willing to part with. The Winterfell library is welcome to all topics. However our concentration has been the curation of tomes written in the Old Tongue.”

He turned to Maester Pycelle. Not to acknowledge him in this request would be foolish.

“We realize that most of these volumes are found above the Neck. Outside of the North, Maester Luwin and I have only reached out to the bordering kingdoms; the Riverlands, the Vale. However, as we are currently in the capitol, we ask the Crown if they’d be willing to donate any tomes they have in the Old Tongue to the Winterfell library.”

The skepticism in Pycelle’s eyes didn’t lessen. It was only through the Lord Hand that he would succeed and so he brought his attention back to Lord Arryn.

“Of course, Lord Stark has been generous to those who have donated such tomes. He is open to compensation.”

He tried to say that straight. It was true that Ned insisted on compensating for the volumes donated, but he usually did that with preapproval. Tiresias had no idea how much the Crown would demand for these volumes.

It was also another time that he spoke for Lord Stark on the fly.

_I’m sorry, Ned. Hope this works out. If not…hope you forgive me._

Lord Arryn pondered the request for a few seconds.

“How many volumes would you seek?”

Tiresias shrugged. “No more than five, my Lord Hand. If that many. I would have to see what’s available. For all I know, I could only end up requesting one.”

Maester Pycelle leaned down to Lord Arryn. “My Lord Hand, this request…it would require a great amount of time…my assistants would need to audit the entire catalog, determine the financial worth of the selected tomes, receive formal permission from his Majesty…”

Lord Arryn cut across his murmuring with a whisper. Tiresias picked it up even if the others didn’t.

“You truly believe Robert cares one fig about some tomes?” he uttered low. “As for any volumes in the Old Tongue, if we have any, who in the name of the Father reads them? Who even can in this place?”

Tiresias worked to keep his face neutral. The Hand turned back to the Northerners.

“A donation won’t be necessary. The Crown can spare five tomes in the Old Tongue to the Winterfell library. As the tourney begins in five days, Grand Maester Pycelle will only have time tomorrow in the late afternoon to catalog the tomes you take. Tiresias, will you be here tomorrow morning? A steward will show you to the library and bring you the possible tomes for you to peruse.”

Tiresias bowed again. “I will. Thank you, my Lord Hand. Thank you, Grand Maester Pycelle.”

Sensing the dismissal, the rest of the Northerners bowed and proceeded to exit the Great Hall. A few whispers followed them and Tiresias felt more eyes on his back than when he arrived, but all in all, it wasn’t bad. The people in this room were here for blood and courtly intrigue. A nerd seeking tomes in a dead language wasn’t nearly as exciting.

Tiresias chuckled to himself. _Nerd. Haven’t thought of that word in ages._

As they exited the Great Hall, Jory sighed.

“Glad it’s over?” Tiresias asked.

“Didn’t say that,” responded Jory. “The Hand is a friend of Lord Stark, but I’m just like the other men. I’m tired, I’ve delivered the coin, we called upon the court, found you…”

“Well, actually, I found you.”

“The point being…” Jory continued. “We’re all tired. We’re free now and we need to drink.”

Tiresias fought the urge to admonish Jory for naming him in his request for the tomes. There was no one else to read the Old Tongue and he would have to be introduced at some point to do it. Fortunately, the Court barely cared about him and would probably forget him in the glory of the tourney in a few days’ time.

Still, he was losing his anonymity bit by bit...well, rather in large chunks over the past few months. With what he had to do in the coming years, how much more could he expose himself?

The question certainly wasn’t helped by the appearance of a familiar perfume approaching them. He turned to see a robed and bald man walking beside them, his feet padding the ground lightly.

“Good afternoon, Jory Cassel, gentlemen,” said Varys. Jory stopped and stared, though he recovered enough to respond.

“Good afternoon, Lord…?” he trailed off. Tiresias wondered if Jory had ever seen such a person like Varys before in the North. Probably not.

The eunuch bowed his head. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Varys, the Master of Whispers on the King’s Small Council.”

Jory narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard of you. You were on the Mad King’s council, aye?”

If Varys was at all peeved at being connected to the previous regime, he didn’t show it. He only nodded politely. “Indeed. It was the former King Aerys who summoned me from across the Narrow Sea.”

Varys turned to Tiresias. “Tiresias, was it?”

Suppressing a smile, Tiresias nodded. “Aye?”

He hoped that sounded like a question. Varys held out both of his hands for a shake, which Tiresias obliged.

“It is so good to meet a fellow Essosi here in the Red Keep.” He released Tiresias’ hand, tucking his own back inside his robes.

“As the Crown is busy welcoming all for the Prince’s tourney, I spoke to the Lord Hand just now after you left and volunteered to show you the library, immediately if you wish. So you will be able to use Grand Maester Pycelle’s precious time more effectively on the morrow.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Of course, if you’re too weary from the travel, it could wait.”

_Milking it a little much, aren’t you, Varys?_

Tiresias shook his head. “No. Not tired at all. I actually arrived in King’s Landing before the Northern retinue. I can see the library now.”

He turned to Jory and his men, who were still regarding Varys with frank suspicion. They were far too open.

“I’ll meet up with you lot later, aye?”

Jory nodded, his eyes darting from Tiresias to Varys. “Aye, we’ll be resting for a bit. I’m sure a servant can direct you to where we'll be supping this evening?”

That question was directed at Varys, who nodded blithely. “Indeed.”

Jory nodded back cautiously, before turning to Tiresias. “Until then.” Then he turned and walked back in the direction of the guest quarters with the other Stark guards.

Varys gestured in the opposite direction. “This way, please.”

They walked side by side through the castle. Tiresias listened as they walked, but thankfully they didn’t attract the whispers or the glances that he expected. Perhaps Varys was just a common sight in these halls. Perhaps the general nobility of Westeros was disgusted by a foreign eunuch and did their best to ignore him.

And was he that much better? He was a foreign bookworm. He was boring. That was probably a greater sin in this court than anything else. He inspired tepid levels of gossip.

It was a lot to hope for. He couldn’t imagine what the people thought; seeing him stroll through the Red Keep with the Spider. However, Varys seemed unconcerned and if that’s how he played his role, Tiresias could hardly do better than to reciprocate.

After they had walked a good while away from the throne room and Tiresias was convinced that they were out of earshot, he turned to Varys.

“Are you actually leading me to the library?”

“Funny enough, I am. It would certainly be strange if the Lord Hand discovered I did otherwise.” Vary turned to him, meeting his eyes. “And it would certainly be strange for a servant of Winterfell to be in King’s Landing for only a tourney. Well played on your part; inquiring the Crown for literary donations.”

Remembering to keep his face neutral, Tiresias kept his voice to a mutter.

“Does the Crown Spymaster usually escort lowly servants to the Red Keep’s library?”

“The Crown Spymaster has a number of unusual activities that go on in this castle. A quick detour to the library to make a fellow foreigner feel welcome hardly qualifies.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” A group of handmaidens came around the corner. Varys nodded to them politely, but they ignored him and continued on. The Spider sighed.

“As long as we’re speaking, may I ask where you’re from in Essos? Or at least, where you’ve been saying you’re from?”

Tiresias glared at him. “Not sure I appreciate that, Varys from Lys. We had a wager, remember?”

“I do,” said Varys lightly. “Please forgive me. Where are you from in Essos?”

It wasn’t worth the annoyance. Tiresias sighed and tried not to make his answer sound too recited. Though it certainly was.

“My family were nomads. We went back and forth between the Free Cities, the bays up North. Mostly Lorath.”

Varys smiled, nodding. “That’s good. My web is rather thin as it heads to the north. On both sides of the Narrow Sea.”

“My life wasn’t decided by your web.”

The Spider nodded apologetically. “Of course not. I was merely going to say that my whispers carry strong throughout the Southern Kingdoms. The North…well, it’s the North. Even as Wardens, the Starks and their bannermen seem content to sit in the snow. Above the game. The Court saw it today. Lord Stark is the only Lord Paramount not to attend the Prince’s nameday tourney.”

“It’s a long journey. Lord Stark means no disrespect by his absence.”

“And thankfully no one cares for his absence. Well, except for the King and he’s more sad than insulted.”

They had come to a pair of beautiful wooden doors that shone against the corridor of stone. Tiresias couldn’t tell what wood it was, but he knew it was expensive. Varys stopped before the doors and turned to him.

“My point, Tiresias, is that the Crown’s influence significantly lessens past the Neck. Up there...a boy may be safe from the wrath of a Queen or a future King.”

Silence followed the eunuch’s words. Tiresias strained his ears, but no one else was in the hall and if Varys chose to halt here and speak, then the tunnels that ran throughout the Red Keep probably didn’t extend here. Varys’ face had no strain of humor or lightness to it. His eyes were quite dangerous.

Tiresias met those eyes easily though.

“So, do you agree to send the boy North?”

“That depends. What is Lord Stark’s plan for the boy?”

He could lie, but honestly, Tiresias felt like he had spoken enough falsities in Ned’s name.

“I don’t know what Lord Stark has in mind for the boy. Continue his apprenticeship, probably. Mikken, the Winterfell blacksmith, is nowhere near the level of Tobho Mott, but he’s good and Gendry will finish his trade.”

Tiresias shrugged. “Perhaps, due to his father, he might be taught to be read. Anything to help the boy’s future. We’re displacing the lad. We owe him something.”

“What do you owe?” Varys asked. “What will he be satisfied with? What will he claim? A King’s bastard raised under a Lord Paramount?”

“You said it yourself, the North hardly cares a thing for the South. Lord Stark has no interest in the power games at Court. He certainly won’t bring Gendry up to claim any Baratheon birthright. He won’t support him if he does. And if the North doesn’t support a bastard usurper, the Stormlands and the Crownlands certainly won’t. Can you imagine Lord Stannis welcoming the boy or any of his illegitimate halfsiblings to Dragonstone? Will Lord Renly bring them to Storm’s End?”

Varys peered at him, considering his words. Tiresias sighed.

“I’ve lived for a few years in Winterfell and believe me, it’s easy to see that ruling the North requires all of Lord Stark’s energy and time. He only wants to save the boy, not press a claim."

The spymaster’s expression didn’t change, though his eyes did flicker to the corner of the corridor. They were still alone. Everyone who was anyone was resting before supper.

“Will the boy be safe?” asked Varys. Tiresias thought he heard a sincerity in the Spider's tone that he hadn’t heard before. “Will Lord Stark keep the boy safe?”

Tiresias stepped forward, lowering his voice even more.

“You were here to see his face. You heard his words when Lord Tywin brought in the corpses of Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen. What do you think?”

He tried to see what Varys was thinking. But that little hint of sincerity was gone. If it was ever there to begin. Varys was an actor before he became a spy.

But he had also seen Varys genuinely care for some things. Children, the realm, the downtrodden…right now, the Spider was considering what to do to. What was the benefit to himself? To all?

Finally, Varys exhaled through his nose, checking the corridor one last time before turning back to Tiresias.

“Do you plan to move into the Red Keep or continue your stay at the Purple Rose?”

“The Purple Rose.”

“Then I will get instructions to you there. I will ask that you not notify your soldier friends that they will have an extra companion on their journey home. The boy’s exit from the city needs little attention.”

Keeping a triumphant grin from his face, Tiresias nodded. “I agree. And the boy’s apprenticeship fees? What you wish for compensation?”

Varys blinked at him. “I only wish for the boy’s happiness and safety.”

Tiresias waited. Finally the Spider sighed. “And thirty dragons should cover the rest.”

A mix between a scoff and a laugh came from Tiresias before he could stop it. “Fine,” he said.

Varys smiled for the first time since they met outside the Throne Room. Then he gestured to the doors. “The library, Tiresias of Lorath. Pardon me,” he corrected, seeing Tiresias’ face. “Tiresias of Winterfell.”

The library was an impressive room, though rather devoid of any readers. Varys ushered him to the castle librarian, who looked bored out of his mind. Despite the barbaric reputation of the North, the librarian seemed grateful for something to break the monotony. His eyebrows rose further and further as Varys explained Tiresias’ presence and his aim in collecting tomes in the Old Tongue.

As the librarian strode into the rows to begin pulling tomes, Varys bowed and departed the library. Tiresias watched him leave, but the Spider didn’t look back once. Which he was grateful for. As soon as the library doors closed on him, Tiresias leaned against the table and sighed, grateful to be out of Varys’ peering eyes.

_Thirty dragons…all right, then. Not the worst. Lots of wealthy people here to lose some coin._

He was taken out of that spiral by the reappearance of the librarian, pushing a trolley stacked with only a few tomes.

“I’m afraid that these are all I could find for now,” he wheezed, placing the tomes one on top of another on the table by the hearth. “As for the rest…I would need the rest of the evening and the morrow to heed your request.”

Tiresias nodded, sitting at the table. “That’s fine. I’ll peruse these for now, but I’ll truly start to examine them in the morning. Determine whether or not Lord Stark would want them.”

He pulled the first tome toward him, opening it gently. After a few seconds, he looked up to see the librarian staring at him.

“You can decipher these runes?”

Tiresias shrugged. “Most of them. Would it be possible to have a quill and paper? I’ll need to make some notes.”

Five minutes later, the librarian returned with his items. Tiresias rolled up his sleeve, preparing to write.

“I assume that I will be able to leave my notes here, undisturbed until the next morning?”

The librarian nodded. “I should imagine so, my lord. The rest of the castle is quite preoccupied. Thanks be to the tourney.”

“Indeed,” said Tiresias, picking up his quill. “As for the other tomes you find, stack them on this table please and leave them for me overnight as well. I should be done by tomorrow evening and know which tomes we’ll be carting back North with us.”

The blunt instruction coming out of him felt a little odd. However, this was not Winterfell and the Red Keep ran on a strict hierarchy. Everyone answered to someone. Still, he felt he had to make a minor correction.

“Also, I’m no lord.”

Looking only slightly embarrassed, the librarian nodded and strode off to find the other tomes.

Thankfully, he didn’t get too lost in the pages. It was only an hour before he left the library. The librarian called a page and instructed him to escort Tiresias to where the Northern soldiers were dining. They walked silently through the halls. Tiresias peered at the back of the page’s head. He wondered whether or not this man belonged to Varys or the Queen or someone else. Was he even important enough to be spied upon?

They descended from the uppers levels of the Red Keep down to where the smaller halls were located. After exiting a spiral staircase, they emerged onto a stone balcony bordering a courtyard below.

Tiresias’ heart stopped and restarted again as he took the view in. A watchtower across from them stood on the edge of the castle, looking out over the Blackwater. He went to the edge and paused, looking down at the courtyard. It was familiar too. As well as the sheer wall of the castle that stood on the other side…

His escort didn’t realize that he had stopped and he was treated to the sound of his feet doubling back.

“My lord?” asked the page.

He turned to face the young man, not bothering to correct him on the lordship. “Is there a privy nearby?”

The page nodded. “Yes, my lord. Right this way.”

They walked the rest of the way around the courtyard before coming to the stairs that the Lannister soldiers patrolled. After descending them, Tiresias slowed as they walked past a corridor.

There was no doubt in his mind as he peered down the corridor. It looked the same, smelled the same. The cellars were there. And so was his backdoor into the Red Keep. He knew how to get here now.

Unless, of course, he forgot. He ran through the steps he took from the Great Hall to the library and here, trying desperately to etch it into his mind. Inside the privy, he stood and ignored the stench, concentrating. He knew that once he joined his Northern friends, they would regale him with tales of the road, demanding his in return as the ale flowed freely.

He didn’t certainly intend to let his secret route be compromised by any drink or merriment. It would have to be locked away, secured. As deep as Balerion’s skull in the cellars of the Red Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, readers! Hope you all are healthy! See you next week for Ch. 28!


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Tuesday has filled up for me and so I decided to publish Chapter 28 today. Chapter 29 will be out on August 18. Thank you in advanced for your patience.
> 
> Hope you all are healthy and staying safe. See you later!

The first thing that struck Jory about the capitol was the absurd heat. The farthest he had ever traveled from Winterfell was the Iron Islands for the short-lived Greyjoy rebellion. The heat of battle was tempered by the winds and sea that billowed the Iron Islands and their ships. The sweat there felt earned and blended with the waves as he disembarked from the boats. He wasn’t bothered by his damp clothes then.

Here, one could simply sweat standing still. Most of the men abandoned their outer garments. Not Jory though. He couldn’t as the assigned commander of this escort. And so he suffered it along with the stink of the city. The summer’s heat only made it worse.

Tiresias assured them all though, that the heat would lessen considerably in the evening. Thankfully he was right. Aside from the ever-present smell of shit, the city cooled immensely as the sun went down and it turned into a pleasant evening.

They had spent the first evening inside the Red Keep, enjoying the hospitality of the Crown. Tonight, however, the men suggested they venture out into the city and enjoy the capitol. Jory didn’t have the heart to deny them. Many of these men wouldn’t venture this far south again.

After assigning two unlucky men to stay behind this evening to guard their belongings (he did so on the suggestion of Tiresias, who seemed to distrust the Red Keep more than anyone), they set out past the front gate, full of gaiety and mirth. It was exciting to explore a strange city at night. There was an energy here that made a man’s spine tingle.

Jory felt the excitement same as his men, but he curbed his instincts, keeping his eyes and ears sharp. Lord Stark had given him strict instructions to bring all his men home safely, including their librarian.

An hour later, a few remaining Stark men, including him, Gord and Tiresias, sat around a street table outside a tavern. The rest of the men had made no secret of their preferred destination and so, with Tiresias guiding them, they deposited all who wished it at the Street of Silk. Jory had never seen his men walk so quickly. He hoped they had heard his strict warning to behave themselves.

Jory brought the mead to his lips, trying to forget the line of brothels along that street. He had never seen anything like it. Not even at Ambre’s. So many women. So many scantily clad, beautiful women. Calling to him…

He shook his head, laughing at himself before drinking.

_They were calling to every man on the street, you dolt._

It certainly tempted him regardless. Thankfully, it was easy to follow Gord and Tiresias, as they merrily waved to the departing soldiers. They had a few hours to spare before the men would be done. So Gord asked for a tavern that served drink that didn’t pass as horse piss. Tiresias was quick to point to a spot nearby.

And so here they sat with full mugs, laughing and drinking steadily in the warm evening. Well, also all of them. Tiresias sipped his ale slowly. He supposed that wasn’t unusual. The librarian was always a moderate drinker.

What was unusual was his presence in King’s Landing. He had been absent from Winterfell longer than usual. Normally his excursions for tomes would last a month at most. Anywhere farther would simply send a rider with the requested materials.

Granted, he had heard from Gord that this excursion would be the longest yet, but where had Tiresias been all this time? According to Vics, he merely departed through the western gate one early morning. He wasn’t even riding a horse. The most recent bit of news put him coming from the Dreadfort, pursued by bandits. He went all the way to White Harbor to evade them…which didn’t make sense…

Also, where were the tomes that he had collected? Perhaps he abandoned them in his flight, but still…being gone for a few months should have yielded several tomes and yet Tiresias didn’t seem to have a single one on him. The five tomes that he brought from the Crown library this afternoon seemed to be the only ones he had collected.

Again, he asked; what had he been doing all this time?

He knew that his uncle didn’t fully trust the librarian. Even though he spoke of him in polite terms. When Lord Stark divulged that Tiresias was going to be in King’s Landing and instructed him to escort the man safely back to Winterfell, he finally asked his uncle his views on the whole affair.

Uncle Rodrik answered as fairly as he could.

“_I don’t know why Lord Stark trusts the man, Jory, or why he values him as highly as he does. I place no judgment on the man himself. I actually like him. In a way. But he’s a mystery. And Lord Stark is privileged to that mystery. It’s his right to keep it. If it were anyone else, I would question it further. However Lord Stark has never given me a reason to. In all my years of service. I trust Lord Stark. So I trust Tiresias. In a matter of speaking._

_“So, I’ll only say go down to King’s Landing, Jory and swiftly. Deliver the coin. Find our librarian. Escort him safely back to Winterfell. If Lord Stark wishes to protect his mysteries, then that’s what we’ll do.”_

Tiresias seemed less like a mystery and more of a normal man as he sat drinking though. Jory felt his suspicions toward the librarian morph in mere curiosities. Such was the effect of comradery on a warm evening.

_Or it could be the mead._

Jory tipped back his mug, finishing his second round. The others saw him and followed suit. Quickly they banged their empty mugs on the table as each one finished. Gord was the first.

“Fuckin' aye!” he cheered, laughing. He looked to Tiresias, who declined to partake, still sipping his half-full mug. “Oh piss off, mate! You won’t get drunk with us? Not even after months of being gone?”

Tiresias grinned, setting his mug down gently. “Someone’s got to remained clear-eyed when this evening’s done. Who else is going to escort you assholes back to the Red Keep?”

Gord belched for a solid ten seconds before replying. “How hard could it be? You can see the damn castle from anywhere in this city. See, look…”

He put his arm around Tiresias’ shoulder and pulled him close, pointing off into the distance.

“You see, right there…you set your course…and then you walk…stumble, we’ll stumble our way back.”

The tavern girl came to their table with a full pitcher. “Another, lads?” she asked.

The men pushed their empty mugs toward her for an answer. She filled them quickly and departed. Tiresias tapped Gord’s arm.

“Mercy, Gord? For old time’s sake?” he asked rather politely.

Gord pulled him closer. “The next time that lovely lass fills our mugs, yours will be empty and waiting like the rest of us. Agreed?”

Tiresias nodded. “Agreed.”

After a brief consideration, Gord nodded. “All right. You’re forgiven.” He then kissed Tiresias on the forehead and released him. Jory exploded in laughter along with the rest of the table. Tiresias was no exception though he did give Gord a good punch in the arm.

“Ah come on, mate,” said Gord laughing as he rubbed his arm. “That’ll be the only loving I’ll have until I get back to Winterfell. To Ginn. I'm a faithful husband after all.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Tiresias as he took a deep draught. He sighed after swallowing.

“What about you?” asked Gord, his eyebrows raising. Tiresias met his eyes evenly.

“What about me?”

“You a faithful man, Tiresias?”

Tiresias didn’t deign to answer that, continuing to stare coolly at Gord, who finally shrugged.

“Fine, keep your secrets” said Gord, taking a drink, but losing none of his grin. “You just seemed to lead us rather confidently to that street with all the lovely ladies. Didn’t he, Commander? Didn’t he seem to know the way rather quickly?”

Jory smiled. “Aye, indeed, he did.”

The laughter from the rest of the table grew. Finally Tiresias set his mug down.

“There’s more to this city than whores, gentlemen,” he replied. “There’s history in these streets.”

“There’s history everywhere, Tiresias” said Jory. He shrugged. “Gods, there’s more history in Winterfell than here.”

“Maybe,” murmured Tiresias, before leaning forward. “Point is; there’s much more to see here. I’ve been here for a month and I’ve barely scratched the surface. I haven’t had the time for the Street of Silk.”

Gord clapped his hand on the librarian’s back, nearly sending him into the table.

“I believe you, friend,” he said rather loudly. The drink was beginning to get to him. “We all do,” he said, gesturing to the table before whispering loudly enough for them all to hear.

“Mal will be pleased to hear that.”

Tiresias ignored that last comment as he sipped his ale. “Besides,” he said. “If I had visited the brothels in this city, I wouldn’t have any coin left to gamble in the tourney. The poor bastards we left back there will have quite the comedown when they discover their empty purses. Everything is more expensive down here. Including the ladies of the night.”

“So you’ll be betting then?” asked Jory. The librarian always seemed to have the best luck with cards, though he didn’t play much. No one could bluff the man. He wondered if the same held true with tourney bets.

"That's the plan,” said Tiresias blithely. He let the silence sit before Gord elbowed him.

“Come on, you tight-lipped fucker, give us a hint.”

Tiresias smiled. “What I do know? I’m just a foreigner. Besides, I’ve been stuck in the North with you lot all these years.”

“You’ve also been here for a month,” said Jory. One day, he’d asked just what the hell he was doing all that time. For now, he merely shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve heard things.”

The librarian fell silent, his eyes losing all play. Jory recognized that look, though this was his first time seeing it up close. Tiresias always wore it when he spoke with Lord Stark. He could never place what the man was thinking. It just seemed…intuitive that he shouldn’t be interrupted.

The rest of the table seemed to pick that up. Even Gord fell silent. For a minute, they waited until Tiresias looked up again.

“Lord Tywin Lannister has brought quite an entourage to this city,” he said quietly. “He is very sure that his pride, Ser Jaime Lannister, will win the joust. He wants the glory of the Westerlands watching him as he does.”

“So you’re betting on Ser Jaime then?” asked Jory. He had seen the Kingslayer fight before on the Iron Islands. He never thought bloodshed could look so elegant.

Tiresias shook his head. “Ser Jaime may be the favorite. However, he’s not my pick. Ser Loras Tyrell is riding in the joust as well.”

Ser Loras…that name rung a bell in Jory’s mind…a young man who squired for Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End. The mention of his name with Lord Renly inspired laughter in the house guard…

Gord laughed now, though for a different reason. “You believe the Knight of Flowers will unseat the youngest Kingsguard in history?”

Tiresias didn’t return the laughter. “He’s my pick. I’ll get good odds from those who can’t see past his pretty looks. Those who cannot see his skill.”

There was such a sincerity behind his words that Jory sensed the whole table changing their minds on their gambling strategies. Their disbelief turning into a quiet reconsideration. Gord was certainly one of them. Drunk as he was becoming, he sobered briefly as he absorbed Tiresias’ words.

After the man did have a talent for....well, he didn’t exactly know what. But Tiresias had a way about it. And so it seemed that the men from Winterfell would place their coins tomorrow on the young knight from the Reach. Most of them at least.

“How much are you betting, Tiresias?” asked Gord.

“All of it,” said Tiresias shortly.

The disbelief came back to the table as Jory lowered his mug. “All of what?” he asked.

“Everything that I’ve made in the past month in this city. Every coin I’ve collected that hasn’t gone to the inn or my stomach.”

“And how much is that?”

“Seventeen dragons and eight moons.”

More than one of the men whistled. Gord leaned toward Tiresias. “Bit reckless, mate. Why the deep bet?”

“I need more coin. Need to buy something.”

“More tomes? I’m sure if you asked the Lord Hand…”

“It’s not tomes,” muttered Tiresias, his eyes on his drink.

Jory felt his eyebrows furrow. “Well, what then?”

Tiresias shook his head. “I’ll tell you when we leave.”

Silence followed his words as the men exchanged looks. Jory kept his eyes on the librarian. Tiresias wasn’t one for steep purchases. Whatever he had found in King’s Landing, Jory only hoped it would fit in either of the wagons they had brought.

Tiresias looked about and grinned at the silent men. Jory knew that look too. He hoped it meant the bet was secure. The librarian raised his mug.

“To Ser Loras. May he make us coin we’ll quickly lose.”

The men raised them mugs and answered the toast. Jory drained his fast, lowering it to see that Tiresias had done the same. For the first time that evening, he answered their empty cups with his own.

* * *

The downside of Lord Stark remaining in Winterfell was that there was no access to the high stands for him and his men. Those seats were reserved for the highest of the highborn; the royal family, the Small Council, the Lords Paramount and the rest, whom Gord described as “the most delicate ass-lickers in the Seven Kingdoms.”

However, after situating themselves, Jory saw the value in the area, to which he and his men were directed. They still had ale, they could leave to piss whenever they wanted. Plus, there were still members of the court surrounding them, with enough coin to gamble away to the barbaric Northerners. All his men made their bets and were watching the jousting field with a determined eye.

It seemed that half the court had their coin set on Ser Jaime Lannister to win. It certainly was the most expected outcome from what he heard. The Lord of the Westerlands seemed to believe so as well. The Northmen’s area stood opposite the royal boxes and it afforded them a view of the court and all of its nonsense. Tiresias spoke truly. Lord Tywin Lannister had brought quite a retinue with him to be present for his son’s victory.

The certainty in Ser Jaime’s triumph allowed his men to place their coin on Ser Loras with excellent odds, on the word of Tiresias. Not all of his men, but at least half. Gord put all his coin down and Jory waged more than he usually would. If his uncle knew, he would certainly have words for him. However, Tiresias had a strange look in his eye when he spoke of Ser Loras. It was a look that made any other outcome seem ridiculous.

Early that morning, he went to the front gate of the Red Keep to escort the librarian to the tourney grounds. He couldn’t help but be a little annoyed with Tiresias. It was foolish of him to remain in the Purple Rose in the city when he could stay in the castle. It was simply more convenient. When he asked him why, the librarian looked to the Red Keep and shrugged.

“It’s too suffocating in this place,” he replied.

Jory honestly had no idea how to respond to that and so they proceeded through the crowded Red Keep to their area in the stands. Tiresias wasted no time in placing his bet. He witnessed the librarian wage his entire purse on Ser Loras’ victory. It was a bet that was taken quickly by some Lord Drax of Hornvale. With exceptional odds as expected.

The odds did indeed seem great at first. Many of his men exchanged worried looks when they saw Ser Loras for the first time. In his shining armor with roses and vines coursing along the metal. It looked more ready for posturing than jousting. Would he really wear such a thing to a battle? Jory sure couldn’t see him leaping out of the boats in the Greyjoy Rebellion.

He turned to Tiresias and he wasn’t the only one. “That’s our man there? The winner of this joust?”

Tiresias nodded immediately. “Aye,” he said calmly.

Gord shook his head. “You sure about that, Tiresias?”

“Aye.” He didn’t take his eye off the Knight of Flowers. “I know how he looks. He is pompous and he does enjoy his pretty things. But beneath all that, he’s a skilled jouster.”

With no other choice but to believe their bookish friend, they turned back to the action.

Ser Loras was parading around the jousting field with the other contestants. He waved to the stands, particularly to the other Tyrells, seated beneath their banner. Lord Mace waved enthusiastically back, pointing out his son to the other lords. An old woman in a wimple sat next to the Lord. Jory could see her eyes roll from across the field. And next to the unimpressed crone, sat a young and pretty lady around Lord Robb’s age.

“Lady Margaery,” muttered Tiresias to his side. He turned to see the librarian focused on the Tyrells as well. “Ser Loras’ sister. That’s their grandmother, Lady Olenna, beside her.”

“A month in King’s Landing and you know all the Southern highborns, eh?” teased Gord.

Tiresias smiled grimly, not taking his eyes off the stands. “Only a few. The ones that bothered to be known.”

A hush fell across their section. Jory turned to see Ser Gregor Clegane riding in front of them, on the biggest horse he’d ever seen. Most of the jousters in the parade waved to the crowd, their favors blowing in the wind. The Mountain made no such gesture. He faced forward, cold to all, indifferent to the silence as he passed. Perhaps he reveled in it. Jory looked at his eyes and shuddered. There was no mercy in his eyes.

After the Mountain passed, Jory muttered to Tiresias.

“You got Ser Loras beating that?”

“It’s not a brawl, Jory.” The man’s head turned, following the giant as he rode away. “There are rules here. Even that abomination needs to follow them to win.”

Jory stared at Tiresias. There was an edge in the man’s voice he hadn’t heard before. And it went to his eyes too. He had the same look when the Clegane retinue passed them in the city. It gave Jory pause. It was common knowledge that Ser Gregor was a beast, but this was something more…

_Why, Tiresias? Why do you stare at the Mountain so?_

But before he could think of a response to that, the parade ended to a final rapturous applause from the audience. The first joust was lining up. It would be Ser Loras and Hosteen Frey to open the tourney.

The two stood in front of the King. Jory stared at the man. In the few years since the Rebellion, he seemed to have gained an absurd amount of weight. Although as he saw the King turn his cup topside, he supposed he couldn’t be surprised.

Jory focused. Was that his first cup? Certainly didn’t seem so. Not by the way he behaved. Finally King Robert looked to Ser Loras and Hosteen Frey, mounted before him, lanced and awaiting his signal. He raised his hand.

“Start the damn joust!” he shouted, his voice carrying to their section.

Jory sighed. If anything, His Majesty could still bellow. He heard it as they landed on Pyke. When he was still a warrior…

The two jousters bowed, as best they could in their saddles, and cantered off to their respective starting positions.

“All right, Tiresias,” muttered Gord, leaning on the railing. He could hear the nerves in the man’s voice. “Let’s see your boy go.”

Tiresias didn’t respond. When Jory looked to him, the librarian was still focused on the royal stands. He nudged him.

“Tiresias, it’s about to start.”

The man took a beat before looking to Ser Loras. And just in time. The horns sounded and the two riders begin to canter toward each other. The crowd seemed to still as they neared, their horses gathering speed as the two lowered their lances.

Jory saw it though he wasn’t sure if the others did. Ser Loras seemed to change before his eyes. The young man held his lance with surety, charging faster and faster without losing his grace. He switched his gaze to the Frey and instantly saw that this joust was over.

The two riders met a small way over the middle point with a solid hit. Only one. Frey’s lance flew upward as Hosteen went flying off his steed, hitting the dirt as the crowd stood. Upon seeing the Frey stand and exit the field with a slight limp, the crowd burst into applause. Lord Mace was heard clearly, the proudest father in the stands at the moment.

The Knight of Flowers took a canter around the field, waving to the crowd, gathering cheers and more than a few cries from the ladies. He lifted his helm, so Jory and his men could see the bright smile from the young jouster.

“Charming fucker, isn’t he?” murmured Gord as he applauded.

Tiresias nodded, clapping himself. “He is.” He turned to the big man. “A good jouster, too, aye?”

“Aye,” Gord admitted. “Assuming he rides well against a real opponent. That Frey was no horseman.”

The librarian shrugged, his eyes back still on Ser Loras, who had paused before the royal box to bow again for the King.

“He’ll knock them down as well.” He turned to Gord and smiled. “Imagine Ginn’s face when you bring home enough gold for the year.”

“Aye, imagine her face if your pretty rose loses my gold for the year.”

However, the tone was light, teasing. The first joust relieved quite a bit of pressure off his men. However, the tension remained and continued to mount throughout the day as contestant after contestant fell to the superior rider. Ser Loras rode again and again. With each victory, the excitement from his men only grew. Even those who didn’t bet on the Knight of Flowers. The possibility for a big payoff was growing.

It wasn’t only Ser Loras that made notable triumphs. Ser Gregor Clegane fell before midday to Ser Barristan Selmy. Jory swore that a collective sigh of relief ran throughout the field. The giant of a man stalked off the field, the crowd parting instantly for him. Ser Jaime Lannister rode so well that Jory began to regret putting his coin down for Ser Loras.

However that worry abated whenever he saw the young man ride. And based on the crowd, they began to sense it as well. The rest of the joust seemed superfluous as it was increasingly obvious to everyone who the final pairing will be to decide the champion.

Nevertheless, the tourney continued all day. They took turns fetching food and drink, never leaving their spot. Not that it was difficult. Most of these men would never see a tourney again. At least not one of this size. Jory was of the North. He understood Lord Stark’s aversion to tourneys. He had it himself. However, he couldn’t deny that he was…having fun. For the first time in a month and a half, there was no gold to transport, no librarian to find. His men were all in one place and the sight of grown men falling from their horses didn’t get old as the day continued.

As the day passed though, he couldn’t help but notice that Tiresias wasn’t sharing in the comradery. Sure he wasn’t a soldier, but he could still celebrate with his men. He did so when they drank in the city nights ago. Today…the librarian barely paid attention to the horses racing toward each, the riders falling to the dirt. His eyes were focused on the stands opposite them.

Not just the King either. He caught Tiresias staring at the Lannisters, the royal children, the Kingsguard, the Tyrells, the Baratheons, to faces he had no names for. He stared at these people consistently. When Jory asked him why, he simply shrugged, saying…

“It’s the best show I’ve ever seen.”

Jory looked to Gord, who heard it as well, standing on Tiresias’ other side. The big man simply shrugged and turned back to the actual show, the joust. Jory shrugged it off as well. Tiresias was an amiable fellow with a few strange sayings. He was a foreigner after all.

And ultimately, his strange words didn’t slow the day down. Before Jory knew it, the sky was red and orange as the sun prepared to go down. And just in time too, as it was time for the final joust.

To no one’s surprise, Ser Loras and Ser Jaime rode out to greet the King, who managed a lazy wave to the two remaining competitors. They made their way to their starting positions. Ser Loras’ armor didn’t gleam so much as it did in the morning, as did Ser Jaime’s Kingsguard uniform. Both of these men faced each other with fresh lances and shields, a luxury many of the riders couldn’t afford.

Despite being the final joust, no one took a moment to remark on it. As soon as the riders were lanced and shielded, the horns blew and they began to charge, their trotting turning into a gallop.

“Time to see if we’ll be rich men walking out of here,” said Gord to his side as the horses neared.

Out of his periphery, he saw Tiresias shake his head. “Not this pass. They’re too tired.”

That was a good observation. Both Ser Loras and Ser Jaime struck, but neither had enough strength to force the rider from his saddle. The crowd applauded loudly as they rode back to their starting points.

“It will be the one who can hold onto their remaining strength the longest,” said Tiresias quietly, under the cheering of the crowd. “I’d say it won’t go any longer than the sixth pass.”

“We’re fucked then,” said Gord. “When it comes to strength, Ser Jaime’s got the lion’s share.”

Tiresias shook his head. “He used most of that strength to unseat Ser Barristan earlier.”

Perhaps the librarian was right. The matchup between the Kingslayer and Ser Barristan was by far the longest joust of the day. It was nine passes between the two before Ser Barristan was finally downed and that was Ser Jaime’s previous match. He hadn’t enough time to rest. Ser Loras had the advantage of foes he could defeat more swiftly.

Quite a few of Jory’s men and perhaps himself, were disappointed that the jousting contest was all in one day, with no time for the finalists to recover. It could make for a potentially boring last pairing. However, this jousting contest wasn’t just to determine a rider’s skill, but his endurance as well. A true champion would make no excuses as he charged his opponent.

That seemed to be the situation here. As the horns blared, both Ser Loras and Ser Jaime charged each other with all they had left. It wasn’t their strength as it was at midday, but looking at the two riding now, there was no doubt in Jory’s mind that the two best jousters had fought their way to the final.

Ser Loras’ lance hit Ser Jaime’s shield, but the Kingslayer’s lance nicked Ser Loras’ shoulder and threw the knight back in his saddle. The crowd stood and gasped, but Ser Loras’ remained mounted. The two riders trotted back to their starts and made to charge again.

Jory turned to Tiresias. “Two passes down, four to go?”

Tiresias nodded. “At least.” The librarian’s eyes flicked again to the royal box, before returning to the field.

They remained at a stalemate for the next two passes. Both lances hit their shields and broke; Ser Jaime’s on the third pass, Ser Loras’ on the fourth. The crowd didn’t seem to tire. Quite the opposite, their cheers grew with each pass. Eager to see a victor.

On the fifth pass, Ser Jaime thrust his lance forward a shade too early and Ser Loras took advantage. Deflecting the lance with his shield, he thrust his own lance quickly and sharply in Ser Jaime’s left shoulder. The Kingslayer shot backwards, dropping his shield. It was a bloody miracle that he was able to stay in his saddle.

Jory heard gasps from the crowd and turned to the royal box to see the Queen tensing in her chair, staring after her twin brother.

He turned to his right to see Tiresias staring at the Queen as well. At this point, he wasn’t surprised.

“Think we’ll have a disappointed Queen soon?” he asked.

Tiresias shook his head slightly. “It’s not over yet. I’ll breathe easier once Ser Jaime hits the dirt.”

Jory’s eyes traveled to the other high boxes. The one right next to the king’s had red and gold banners draped over it. The Queen’s expression was shared by all those in this box. Including a tall and imposing man who stood at the front. And a dwarf who stood at the rails…

“Bet Lord Tywin regrets dragging the best of the Westerlands to watch his heir fall,” he muttered to Tiresias. The librarian followed his eyes to find the Old Lion himself.

“Maybe,” said Tiresias. “Though I’m sure Lord Tywin will find a way to make this trip bear fruit.”

The horns blared and their eyes snapped back to the riders. Ser Jaime was holding another shield, but far too loosely, his lance not quite as steady…

Ser Loras, on the other hand, was charging forth, energizing by the last bout, his horse’s hooves pounding against the earth. The crowd was silent now, waiting for the impact.

It ended quickly. Ser Loras slipped his lance under the shield, catching Ser Jaime in his center. Before the Kingsguard fell to the ground, the crowd erupted into applause, with the Tyrell box cheering for their young knight. The Queen had stood from her seat, but King Robert was laughing at the sight of his brother-in-law hitting the dirt.

Ser Loras had the decency to ride back past Ser Jaime and check him. However, Ser Jaime quickly got up and waved to the crowd, saluting the Knight of Flowers. Evidently there was no serious injury. Lord Tywin managed a polite applause before turning to exit the stands. However, no one else in the crowd noticed (well, except Tiresias probably). Ser Loras was now cantering around the jousting field, waving to all the spectators. Most were transfixed by the handsome knight.

Not his men though. Once Ser Jaime fell and they realized how much wealthier they were for it, they started cheering amongst themselves. Gord took Tiresias in his arms, spinning the man around. Quickly though they collected themselves and applauded the Tyrell champion as he trotted past. Ser Loras had received the Champion's Favor, an elegant crown of flowers, which he held high as he directed his horse toward his family’s banners.

He came close enough so Lord Mace was able to reach over and pat his son on the shoulder. Ser Loras smiled appreciatively before continuing onto the young Lady Tyrell. He halted before her and handed over the Champion’s Favor. When Margaery donned the flower crown, she offered her hand. Ser Loras took it as the herald exclaimed.

“Ser Loras of House Tyrell has crowned his sister, Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, as this tourney’s Queen of Love and Beauty!”

Applause followed as the two siblings turned and waved to their audience. Jory and the Northern men gave more than the polite amount of applause. After all, the polished young knight had made them all rich.

Not many expected it, from what he could see in the crowd. For every spectator cheering for the Knight of Flowers, there was another applauding with a frown on their face. A lost wager would do that. Not many foresaw the Tyrell boy triumphing.

_Tiresias did though. Gods know how, but he did._

He turned to the librarian and his clapping hands slowed. With all focused on Loras and Margaery Tyrell, Tiresias stood still, his eyes again on the stands opposite. He followed his gaze to the royal box.

Lord Tyrell had been granted the honor of entering the royal box. He could see the man’s chest puff up from here as he bowed and shook the King’s hand. He then turned to the Queen, who offered him a hand to kiss. Her face was quite stiff.

“Doesn’t look too happy, does she?” he remarked to Tiresias.

A grunt was his only response and he looked back up to see the King receiving another guest. An Essosi, if he had to guess, donned in bright cloth, his moustache waxed for the occasion. He bowed to the King as he presented a sheathed dagger…

A slap to the shoulder interrupted his gazing and he turned to see Gord behind him, his huge arms wrapped around him and Tiresias.

“Come on, men! Tonight, we celebrate. Tonight, we…”

“Tonight,” said Jory, breaking away, trying to hide his own amusement. “Tonight, we prepare for the ride home.”

Groans emanated from the men.

“All right, that’s enough,” he called. “Are you boys or men? We had our fun and we’ve made our coin. Now, we prepare to leave in the morning. Everything made ready. Then, and only then, will we drink. And lightly. I want us able to ride tomorrow.”

The men acquiesced to this and began to exit the stands. Jory walked forward before realizing they were missing someone. He turned to see Tiresias still at the railing, still staring at the royal box.

He came up to the librarian. “Tiresias, you’re all right?”

Tiresias nodded stiffly, his eyes still up. “Aye…aye, I’m fine.”

He looked up to see the King exiting the box, white cloaks trailing him. Turning back to his friend, he clapped his shoulder.

“Come on, let’s get our winnings. What say you?”

Tiresias turned and smiled. Jory paused. That smile seemed…rather set.

“Sounds good. Let’s go.”

Pivoting on his heel, Tiresias exited the stands and Jory followed, shaking the set smile out of his head. It was probably just shock. He had won a huge bet after all. Enough to give any man pause.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

It was an hour past midday and the men were eager to get started on the journey back North. They stood packed and ready, just outside the Gate of the Gods. Unfortunately, they were short one man.

Jory wanted to curse, but resisted for the sake of his men. He couldn’t be seen getting frustrated. This was why he wanted Tiresias with them, to just sleep in the damn Red Keep, so that their departure could be handled with expediency. He said so to the librarian last night, trying to convince him to forgo his inn for their last evening in King’s Landing.

However, Tiresias declined, saying he still had business in the city, and that he would meet him at the city gate before midday. He then asked Jory to make room in the wagon. When Jory asked what for, Tiresias refused to say and bade him goodnight.

And so here they stood, with half the day gone and the men anxious to leave. It was a good thing that Tiresias was responsible for their extraordinary luck gambling on the joust. Otherwise the mood would be more hostile.

Even Gord was getting annoyed. “Where the hell is he?” he muttered, coming to Jory’s side, staring back into the city.

Jory didn’t even shrug. “You know him better than me,” he said, before peering to Gord. “I don’t suppose he told you what he had to do this morning?”

Gord shook his head. “Bastard was tight-lipped about the whole thing.” He looked around him before lowering his tone. “Guessing we be taking more than tomes back, aye?”

“I suppose so.”

He felt Gord look to him, before asking. “You ain’t thinking of leaving him if he doesn’t show?”

“I swore to Lord Stark I’d escort Tiresias back to Winterfell,” Jory answered immediately. “Don’t worry, Gord. I’ll not leave just because the men are getting anxious.”

Relief rippled through Gord. “Good. I mean, I knew that…just wanted to be sure.”

On that, Gord turned to return to the contingent, calling back to Jory.

“Feel free to curse him out for making us wait, though. Bastard deserves that, at least.”

Jory didn’t deign to answer that. He made sure his face was turned back to the gates before grinning.

The grin slid from his face as he focused in on the crowd, framed by the city gate. A slim figure was making his way through. Jory recognized the librarian immediately and turned to call to the soldiers.

“All right, men! Let’s saddle up. Our bookish friend’s coming.”

Grumbles, sighs of relief and more than one “Finally!” reached his ear. He let them grouse. Today was just the beginning of their long ride back. Turning back to the city gate, he saw that Tiresias had already cleared it…

…And a black-haired boy was at his side, carrying a small satchel.

Questions flooded Jory’s mind. Was this what, or rather whom, the empty space in the wagon was for? It must be. Tiresias carried nothing but his rucksack and Jory didn’t see anything else following the man. Who the hell was this kid? And why was he coming with them?

Tiresias spotted their company, pointing them out to the boy who was accompanying him. Leaving behind the mounted men, Jory strode forth and met Tiresias halfway.

“Morning, Jory,” greeted Tiresias briskly, despite the pockets under his eyes.

“It’s afternoon,” Jory replied, unable to keep a slight annoyance from his voice.

Tiresias nodded apologetically. “I’m sorry about the delay. I had a few things to clear with the boy’s former master and it’s a long walk from the Street of Steel to here.”

“The Street of Steel?”

“Aye,” said Tiresias, turning to the lad. “Do you want to introduce yourself, or should I?”

The lad looked from the librarian to the ground. “Gendry,” he mumbled.

Jory blinked. “Gendry…?”

“Gendry,” Tiresias said gently. “Come on, Jory, do you give me grief over my single name?”

“Right…” said Jory, still staring at this Gendry. “And who are you, Gendry?”

“Blacksmith,” Gendry said, not breaking from his mumble.

“Blacksmith?”

Tiresias interjected. “He was an apprentice to Tobho Mott, a master blacksmith, here in King’s Landing. Gendry is going to complete his apprenticeship in Winterfell, under Mikken.”

A smallborn apprentice from King’s Landing…Lord Stark didn’t say anything about them escorting anyone up North, except for Tiresias.

“Is Lord Stark expecting…?” he asked, nodding to the lad, who hadn’t looked up.

Tiresias nodded. “He is.”

Jory had several pressing questions, but he didn’t wish for the lad to bear witness to them. Hoping he wouldn’t have to force the boy back into the city, he turned to Gendry.

“Gendry,” he said. The boy looked up, fixing him with his bright blue eyes. “Do you see my men there? We have a spot in you in the back wagon. Why don’t you go over there and get settled? Tiresias and I need to speak.”

Gendry looked to Tiresias, who nodded, before grabbing his rucksack and striding past him. He certainly looked like a blacksmith’s apprentice. He was slightly shorter than Robb, but he was stockier, no doubt strong from swinging a hammer and handling irons.

After seeing Gord walk forward to greet the lad, Jory turned back to Tiresias.

“What’s going on?

Tiresias smiled grimly, nodding to Gendry. “You’re bringing home a new apprentice for Mikken. It’s not a charity case. Gendry will pull his weight, I promise you.”

“I’m not asking about that,” hissed Jory. He breathed to calm himself.

“I know you aren’t,” Tiresias replied evenly. “Jory, listen to me. The boy needs to get out of King’s Landing. And Lord Stark will want the boy in the Winterfell for his own safety. You need to trust me on that.”

Jory turned back to his men. Gendry had placed his rucksack on the wagon and was staring back at them. He hadn’t boarded himself though. He looked worried.

“Jory,” said Tiresias. Turning back to him, he saw that the librarian had lost all joviality in his eyes. “I know you trust me more than your uncle does. I need you to escort Gendry to Winterfell for me.”

Forgetting about Gendry for the moment, Jory stared. “For you?”

Tiresias extracted a letter from his jacket, holding it out. “This is for Lord Stark when you arrive. I shouldn’t be more than a couple months behind, but this will explain the boy’s presence.”

“What you do mean? The f—” He paused before lowering his voice again. “The fuck do you mean you’ll be two months behind? You’re supposed to travel north with us.”

“Something came up,” replied Tiresias. His voice remained calm. “I’m sorry that I didn’t speak to you beforehand. I was planning to go back, but…an opportunity has arisen and I’d be a fool not to pursue it.”

Jory felt at a loss for words. Tiresias raised his hand for a shake.

“Thank you for coming south for me, Jory. I’m sorry that you and the lads came so far, but I’m afraid that I can’t return to Winterfell just yet.”

Refusing to grasp his hand, Jory met Tiresias’ eyes.

“Lord Stark commanded me to escort you home.”

“I’m aware of that.” Tiresias’ tone was still blithe, but he had the decency to drop his hand. “I put it in the letter that you are not to be reprimanded for leaving me behind. It’s my decision alone.”

He hitched his rucksack onto his shoulder. “I’ll see you in two months, Jory.”

As he turned to leave, Jory reached out and grasped his shoulder. Tiresias glanced down at his hand, before meeting his eyes.

“You didn’t hear me right the first time,” said Jory. “I am sworn to escort you home.”

Tiresias sighed. “Jory, are you seriously considering forcing me to come? Think there’s enough room in that wagon to tie a grown man in the back?”

Jory shook his head, dropping his hand from the librarian’s shoulder.

“Nah…I can’t stop you from delaying your return…and you can’t stop me from following you.”

For the first time, Tiresias looked uncomfortable. He glanced to the south, following the city walls as they ran to the Blackwater.

“Jory, no,” he said, turning back to him. “What I have to do…what I’m trying to do…it’s not good to have company…”

“You think you can keep ahead on foot?” asked Jory. “You may be strong and fast, but I have a horse. I’ve seen you ride, friend. You’ve a middling talent with animals, at best.”

“Listen to me” Tiresias hissed. He came close to Jory, who refused to budge. “What I’m doing right now…it’s for the benefit of House Stark. And it requires that I…”

“That you what? Go ahead quietly and alone? Travel in secret? Accomplish a mission?” said Jory.

He and Tiresias stared at each other, waiting for the other to break it. Finally, Jory sighed.

“My uncle told me about you. How you showed up one day at Winterfell. Talked in secret to Lord Stark and you’ve been with us ever since. A foreigner. Building a library. Training. Getting stronger. Just carting about the North. Months at a time.”

“I’ve been collecting tomes…”

“Aye, you have. Tell me, Tiresias, how many tomes did you fetch beyond the Wall?”

That brought the silence down harder than anything else. Jory swallowed. He hadn’t meant to reveal that this afternoon. Uncle Rodrik only told him in confidence of the bookish Tiresias disappearing from their retinue years ago when they visited the Wall. Lord Stark said he was staying at Castle Black, but Uncle Rodrik never believed that. He only knew that Lord Stark needed his men to believe that. And so, he only relayed his suspicions to Jory.

And right now, it seemed that those suspicions were confirmed. Jory wasn’t nearly as perceptive as the Essosi, but he could tell that Tiresias wasn’t denying anything with his silence.

He swallowed again before speaking.

“You are in Lord Stark’s service. Whatever he asks or what you do for him…I support you. But I’m in his service as well and he’s commanded me to escort you back. So that’s what I’ll do.”

Tiresias’ eyes seemed to lose their light as he stepped forward. “If you do support me, then know that I can’t have a company of Northern soldiers following me…”

“It’ll just be me,” said Jory. “The rest want to go home. And I’ll not keep them from their families.”

“Or even just one soldier. You’ll stand out, Jory…”

“Where are you going?” Jory interjected. Tiresias didn’t answer for a minute and Jory scoffed. “Oh come on, you could give me that at least.”

Tiresias sighed. “The Goldroad. Onto the Westerlands.”

_The Westerlands…why in the name of the gods…?_

Never mind, it didn’t matter.

“So you’re going along the Goldroad? Amidst all the fighters, knights and travelers coming from King’s Landing? From the tourney? Travelling on the Kingsroad, friend, I’ve seen many soldiers and fighters, coming to and fro. You know what’s an uncommon sight?”

Tiresias didn’t answer.

“To see one travelling alone,” said Jory. “A lone traveler draws your eye. Makes you think. No one looks twice at a couple of blokes.”

He lowered his voice. “If you want to be hidden, Tiresias, best do it in sight. And please don’t tell me I can’t keep up. On a horse, I’m as quick as you. And if you need to do what you do in secret…well, an alibi I can be.”

As Tiresias contemplated his words, Jory looked back to the men. All of them were staring. He could see the question in their eyes from here. Gord even raised his arms in bewilderment. Jory raised his hand, asking for patience, before turning back to Tiresias.

The librarian spoke. “We’ll need to leave now. We have to get ahead.”

“Ahead of whom?”

Tiresias shook his head. “That’s my business. You’re just along for the ride. Can you accept that?”

Jory nodded. “Aye, I can.”

Sighing, Tiresias nodded. “Fuck me then. All right. Get squared away with your men.”

Jory didn’t hesitate, striding back toward his men, calling back.

“I’ll fetch you the horse we brought for you. Along with mine.”

Tiresias nodded. “Just hurry, please. We needed to start moving this morning.”

Jory reached the soldiers, several of whom asked the same question.

“Cassel, what’s going on?”

“There’s been a change in plan, men.” Jory spoke shortly and clearly, trying to emulate his uncle. Leave no room for disagreement.

“You will all ride for Winterfell immediately. You will escort this young man to Lord Stark along with this letter.” He handed Gord the letter that Tiresias gave. “Tiresias and I have other business and will be along in two months’ time.”

The men swallowed their protestations. Well, most of them.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” demanded Gord, from his horse. “Lord Stark told us to escort the man home from King’s Landing. He said nothing else about other business…”

“Lord Stark instructed me to escort Tiresias back home to Winterfell. Whether it’s straight home from King’s Landing, or south through Dorne or anywhere else, that’s my job. Yours, as of now, is to escort Gendry here to the North.”

“No.”

All men turned to the wagon, where Gendry was sitting. The boy looked surprised that he had spoken, but still defiant. Jory walked to the lad.

“What do you mean, Gendry?”

Gendry swallowed. “I said no. My master, he said…he said that I was to follow the man there, Tiresias. That I was to go with him. Not you lot.”

The boy’s voice grew less shaky by the end, though he was still dwarfed by all who rode. Jory knew from his experience with Arya Stark that defiant children rarely listen to admonishment, so he calmed himself before speaking.

“Gendry, these men will escort you to Winterfell. They’ll guarantee your safety. Protect you. Tiresias and I…we have work to do. And I don’t know when we’ll arrive back in Winterfell…”

“Why do I need protecting?” Gendry interrupted. “I don’t know why I’m going to Winterfell or why I have to leave King’s Landing!”

He pointed to Tiresias, still waiting at a distance. “He said I was in danger, he said he’d speak of it when we were away from the city. I want that more than I want your protection. I want to know why.”

Jory sighed and waved Tiresias over. The librarian came, his impatience growing as he neared.

“Yes?” Tiresias said.

Relaying what the boy said, he saw his friend’s eye grow softer. Tiresias turned to the lad.

“Gendry,” he said softly. “I wrote the reasoning down for Lord Stark. He’ll relay it to you…”

“That’s not what you said.” Gendry walked away from the wagon, staring defiantly up at the librarian, coming up to his shoulders. “If you’re taking me from me home, taking me from what I know, I want to hear it from you. I’ll follow you ‘til I hear it.”

Jory looked to the other men as they witnessed this. Like them, he had no clue what was going on. What was supposed to be an easy departure from the stinking capitol had turned into a battle of wills between two non-Northerners. A few of them found it amusing.

However, he could sense Tiresias' urgency and stepped to the man, murmuring in his ear. “Tiresias…I said two men would be better hidden than a solitary traveler…it could be better still, having the lad with us. He could be our steward. That we could say.”

“Fine,” Tiresias said curtly. He turned back to Gendry. “Can you ride, Gendry?”

“A little.”

“Jory, there’s a stable just behind the gate here in the city. I’m sure you saw it. Can you buy our young friend here a horse and saddle? I’m a little short on coin at the moment.”

Jory stared at him. “What happened to all your winnings?”

“Gone.”

Questions rained through his mind, but he ignored them as he strode back to the city. A half hour later, he, Gendry and Tiresias were mounted, holding their horses steady as the soldiers finally began to ride north.

Gord brought up the rear, cantering back to Tiresias.

“What about Mal, Tiresias? Anything I should relay to her?”

Jory turned away and tried to ignore the conversation. It wasn’t his concern, but he couldn’t shut out Tiresias’ hesitation and answer.

“Tell her I’m sorry for the delay.” He looked back to see Tiresias reach into his rucksack and pull out a small wrapped package. “Could you give her these? Tell her…tell her I still wish to speak with her.”

He then shrugged. “Not much else I can say, is there?”

Well, if anything else, Tiresias was no romantic. Gord sighed as he took the package and placed it in his satchel. He bid his friend farewell before trotting back to the company. There was a silence between the three of them, the sounds of the city behind them.

Finally Tiresias turned his horse south. “Come on, then,” he said, before lightly kicking and riding along the city wall, heading for the Lion’s Gate and then the Gold Road. Jory followed him, catching him easily. He could hear Gendry barely keeping up, the lad’s swearing quite audible.

* * *

However, after they got going on the Goldroad, the librarian decreased his speed somewhat and they traveled at a more comfortable pace. They followed the Blackwater Rush as far as they could before the road ventured into the mountains of the west. After a sennight of riding, the companies of several Westerland houses began to catch up with them, the tourney having come to a close in their absence.

Tiresias’ ears were more sensitive than he thought. The librarian turned his head to check their rear long before he himself heard the company coming up behind. As he saw their banners, he guided his mount to the side of the road and let them pass. Every single house.

Jory stared after their latest acquaintance, a company of fifty guards surrounding a carriage, their banners sporting a blue rooster on a yellow background.

He turned to Tiresias, who was eyeing the carriage.

“Which house is that, Jory?” Tiresias called.

“House Swyft of Cornfield,” Jory said, remembering his lessons from his uncle. “I take it that’s not the company you’re looking for?”

Tiresias shook his head. “No.”

“Feel like saying which house you are searching for?”

“No.”

Jory sighed. “Fine.” He turned back to the lad. “You all right, Gendry?”

“Aye, Ser,” said Gendry, coming up close behind them. The past week saw a dramatic improvement in the boy’s horsemanship, by pure necessity. Gendry now rode easily enough with them.

It wasn’t like that the first night. They had settled by the Blackwater Rush to camp and the lad demanded answers from the librarian.

“You told you’d tell me why when we left King’s Landing!”

Tiresias lit the tinder underneath the small woodstack. “I said I would tell you when you were past the Neck. If you’d gone with the soldiers, you'd've known sooner than traveling with us. That letter would have explained all.”

Gendry threw a stone in the river. There was only silence afterwards for a moment.

“Gendry,” Tiresias began softly. “You’re a bastard.”

“I know that,” he said sullenly.

“Your father is a powerful man. And his wife…” Tiresias paused before continuing. “She’s powerful too, and very jealous. And their son is vicious. One of the few people I’d actually call evil. If they knew of you, they would see you as a grave insult and they wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”

Gendry looked back to Tiresias, his frustration down to a simmer.

“If you stayed in King’s Landing…” Tiresias ran his hand through his hair. It was longer than Jory had ever seen it. “I would be willing to guess that you would have been killed in due time.”

Tiresias went back to the fire, but Gendry continued to stare at him, trying to figure him out.

_Good luck, lad. _Jory snorted lightly. _No one in Winterfell has figured out this man so far. Except Lord Stark probably…maybe Mal…_

Finally Gendry looked back to the fire. “We’re out of King’s Landing now.”

“Aye, thank the Gods,” Tiresias muttered.

“So why don’t you tell me who my father is? We’re out of the city. I don’t plan to shout it from the road. The wife, whoever she is…she can’t reach us here.”

Tiresias looked to Gendry. “Yes, she can. In fact, the only places in Westeros I trust her not to touch you are the North and Dorne. Now, I don’t know a smith in Dorne that will take you or a castle that will host you. But Winterfell will welcome you, should you want it.”

Jory didn’t miss that Tiresias refused to speak of the boy’s father and judging by the look on Gendry’s face, he didn’t either. However, as they rode on, the lad warmed to them. One could only stay needled for so long. It was tiring. The journey helped as well. Having never been out of the city before, Gendry eyed the approaching mountains with wonder. 

Finally the Goldroad veered from the Blackwater and continued to the west. Tiresias picked up the pace. The few houses returning to the Westerlands turned into many and soon they rode step by step in the huge caravan that came from the east. He saw many banners that he hadn’t seen since the Greyjoy Rebellion; House Serrett from Silverhill, House Brax from Hornvale, House Lydden from Deep Den, House Kenning, House Prester, even the Marbrands and the Leffords.

Tiresias looked content to ride with these houses. They received a few questioning glances, particularly after they spoke. Jory’s Northern burr and Tiresias’…wherever he came from, it drew looks. However, the soldiers that they encountered seemed content to leave them be. On occasion, they were even amiable enough to share some news.

“Afternoon, men!” called Jory to a group of soldiers, riding under a banner of six white seashells against a blanket of sand. They were of House Westerling. A young one nodded to him.

“Afternoon yourself!”

“Thank you! Tell me; what news of the tourney melee? Who emerged victorious? Unfortunately, we had to depart after the joust.”

The young soldier steered his horse to ride beside him. “Lord Yohn Royce from the Vale took the prize that day. It was down to him and Thoros of Myr.”

“Thoros?” Jory’s mind flashed back to the siege of Pyke, at the burning sword that led the charge, at the balding man who wielded it.

“Aye, him. Mad bastard brought out his flaming sword, but Lord Royce kept his calm. Fought smartly.” The soldier shrugged. “Not the most exciting duel, truly. But in the end, Lord Royce left King's Landing a richer man.”

“Good for him.” Lord Stark spoke well of Lord Royce. They used to hunt together during Lord Stark’s fostering in the Vale.

The Westerling soldier shrugged. “Aye, I suppose. Could have use it meself about now. Waging’s fucked in that city. Lost good coin on that joust.”

“You were betting on Ser Jaime Lannister?” Jory stopped himself from saying Kingslayer.

“Aye, who else? We’re in the Westerlands, mate. Might as well be breaking the law to bet against Lord Tywin’s brood.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Aye.” The soldier spat. “Good riddance to that city, anyhow. Took long enough to get out.”

Jory turned to him. “What do you mean?”

The soldier met his eyes. “Castle guard went through our wagons, our belongings. By order of the King. Looking for something.”

Tiresias’ horse gave a small whinny. Jory looked back quickly, but the librarian’s face was neutral. He turned back to the Westerling man.

“What were they searching for?”

“No idea. Didn’t bother to tell us. Took us hours to get through that fucking gate. Lord Gawen was ready to pull a fucking blade on the…”

“Redding,” said another soldier warningly. The young man swallowed.

“Pardon, Ser,” he said, before turning back. “People say something was stolen from the Red Keep. Something valuable.”

Jory stared. “What?”

“No idea. No one would say.” Redding sighed. “Whatever it was...hate to be the poor bastard who was guarding it.”

Redding continued to chat for a while before getting bored and riding along. Jory didn’t mind. He, Tiresias and Gendry continued to ride with the long train of soldiers into the mountains. The trails got narrower and the stopovers were more difficult. Inns were completely booked by the time they arrived. Camping was their only option. And most of the spots were taken already by soldiers.

However, they were still able to get food from the inns. Tiresias came back to their fire, balancing three bowls of stew in his hands. Jory took his, giving it a sniff.

“What’s in this?”

“Don’t ask,” Tiresias grumbled. Gendry began devouring his right away. He supposed the boy had eaten much worse in Flea Bottom. Jory took a wary bite of his. It was all right, just a little salty.

“Don’t suppose you could hunt anything out here?” he asked Tiresias.

Tiresias shook his head. “A caravan this big…all the animals are scared away.”

It may have been summer, but the mountain air still chilled after sundown. That night, Tiresias gave Gendry his fur jacket. The boy was grateful and was able to sleep outside more soundly. As the boy slept, Jory muttered to Tiresias.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who the hell this boy is?”

The librarian paused in the middle of sharpening his dagger. He turned and check their surroundings. Westerland soldiers were on all sides. Turning back to his blade, he muttered back.

“Not much privacy here.”

Jory leaned to him. “You really think anyone else is paying attention to us?”

“They might be.”

“Come off it, mate.” He drank from his waterskin. “I’ve been hunting with you. You’d know if anyone was near enough to hear us.”

Tiresias didn’t respond to that, leaving Jory no other option but to sigh.

“You think Gendry’s gonna to let loose a secret that will kill him?”

“It’s not just that.”

Jory stared at him. “Then what else is it?”

“He’s only twelve. If he learns who his father is…I don’t want him to get big-headed.”

“Is the identity of his father truly so shocking?”

Tiresias turned to him, looking him directly in the eyes. “He’s King Robert’s bastard, Jory. One of them at least.”

Jory didn’t respond to that. He couldn’t. For the next couple of minutes, the sound of soldiers drunken singing melted through the forest. He recognized the song; The Rains of Castamere. It was about all these Westerland soldiers liked to sing.

Tiresias met his stare calmly. Eventually Jory turned to the sleeping lad on the ground. Now that he heard it, he saw what the fat man on throne gave to this young lad; the black hair, the tall frame, the blue eyes…well, when the lad was awake, he’d see the blue eyes.

Anyway, it took only a glance for Jory to believe. He turned back to Tiresias, who had already gone back to sharpening his blade.

“Does Lord Stark really know of him?” He lowered his tone automatically, though he was sure no one was listening to them.

Tiresias shook his head. “No.”

Jory looked at Gendry again, confirming the secret. They didn’t speak of it again for the rest of the evening. Until they were crawling under their blankets…well, he was crawling under his blanket. Tiresias just laid down on the ground. The man just didn’t get cold.

“Tiresias,” Jory whispered. “I think the boy could handle it. If you told him. He’s a good lad...”

“I’m sure he could,” Tiresias murmured back. “I just don’t wish to make him more of a target. Best wait until he’s in safe territory for him to learn. Better only two people know of it than three.”

Jory checked that Gendry was truly asleep before whispering back. “By that thinking, it’s better still if only one person knew of it than two, aye?”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“So why did you tell me?”

Tiresias adjusted his rucksack for a pillow, settling into sleep. “In case something happens to me, someone should be able to tell the lad.”

“Why would something happen to you?”

Jory waited but he received no answer. Finally he turned on his back, facing the stars. The air wasn’t as clear as it was up north. But he could still see the Crone’s Lantern.

They continued to travel along, deeper and deeper into the Westerlands. More and more houses continued to branch off to their respective keeps, but their caravan was still quite large. At the end of three sennights of travel, they had stopped just three miles short of Deep Den, the seat of House Lydden. An inn was there and by sheer luck, they were able to dine at the tavern.

Well just outside of the tavern. The innkeeper pointed them to a bench in the back and they occupied it immediately, sighing as they sat. They ordered bacon and pepper biscuits with a pair of ales.

“Can I have one?” asked Gendry, as Tiresias ordered them from the serving girl. He and Jory both turned to the lad, their eyebrows raised.

“Please?” Gendry continued. “I’ve had it before and we’ve been riding forever.”

Tiresias turned to Jory and shrugged. “Your treat.”

Jory smirked and turned back to the serving girl. She was a bigger girl with blonde hair and looked very similar to the innkeeper in face. His daughter probably. Probably fourteen or so.

“Three ales please.”

So, all three sat, eating their biscuits and drinking ale, not really speaking. The sky was purple and gold with the sunset. A river was running from the mountains off in the trees and it made for a lovely sound. No one saw reason to add to it.

However, the inn was quite busy. And dawdling meant more coin that the innkeeper would not earn, even on a bench. After a half hour, they drained the last of their ale—Gendry struggled with his—and mounted their horses, trying to find a place to camp.

If they were high-ranking knights or members of a noble house in the Westerlands, they would have found shelter at Deep Den and been hosted by Lord Lewys Lydden. However they were not and Tiresias didn’t seem inclined to seek shelter inside the castle-fort anyways. Approaching the front gate, Jory inquired of a spot to camp and was silently pointed to the forest surrounding the walls.

They took an open spot near the gates. Tiresias lowered his rucksack and pulled out a bundle of sticks he had collected along the way. A precaution he had learned camping in the North, no doubt. Many of the other men outside the walls were scavenging for fuel or begging for logs from Deep Den. Jory sighed in relief.

“Good thinking ahead there, mate.”

Tiresias shrugged. “I don’t believe we even need one. It’s not a cold night and we have enough light from the Den already. Still…” He smiled as he raised the fire. “It’s good company.”

Deciding to take advantage of the light, Jory withdrew his sword and readied it for sharpening, fetching a whetstone from his bag.

“I can do that for you.”

He looked up to see Gendry staring at him and his stone.

“You know how?”

The lad rolled his eyes. “Aye, I know how. Sharpened plenty of swords for Master Mott. Probably do it better than you.”

Jory started laughing. He could see Tiresias chuckling as well, tending to the flames.

“Oh come on,” said Gendry. “Please? I’m bored as hell. Just give me something to do. Let me work on something.”

Tempted as he was to let the silence linger longer and make Gendry more anxious, Jory handed the sword to Gendry, who took it surely.

Any warnings about being careful were silenced as he watched the lad handle his weapon. Safely, with no fear with cutting himself, his eyes took in the blade, peering it down from the handle. Finally he set the sword aside and took the whetstone.

When he looked over the whetstone, he shrugged and sighed.

“This will do, I guess.”

Jory wanted to respond to the cheek. Before he could though, Gendry had propped the whetstone in front of him, securing it in the earth. He sprinkled some water on top and began to slide the blade. The steel sang with the flames and the crackling of the wood.

Seeing the concentrated look on the boy’s face, Jory knew he was preoccupied for the evening. He turned to Tiresias, who sat staring at the flames.

“What gods did you worship in Essos, Tiresias?”

Tiresias didn’t move. “Why do you ask?”

Jory shrugged. “Heard of some in Essos who worship fire.”

A rather loud _pop_ came from their pit and Jory jumped. Tiresias laughed softly.

“That might be a sign that we shouldn’t speak of this.”

Giving a small chuckle himself, Jory shook his head. “Fine, suit yourself. Just trying to fill the air. Lad’s right in one respect, Tiresias. We are boring. There’s only so long we could stare at a campfire every night.”

Tiresias lifted his eyes from the flames, peering at him lightly.

“Very well. What do you suggest?”

Jory shrugged. “A song? One of the strange ones you know.”

Tiresias nodded slowly, thinking. “One of the strange ones I know…” he murmured.

He seemed to go into himself, considering what ballad he should warble. As the minute dragged on, Jory realized that Gendry had stopped too. They were both waiting for some middling entertainment.

Finally Tiresias raised his head, humming a rhythm, tapping his knee gently along. After a few seconds, he swallowed and begin to sing softly.

“Well, my name is Jock Stewart. I'm a canny ole man,  
But a roving young fellow I've been,  
So be easy and free when you're drinking with me.  
I'm a man you don't meet every day.

I have acres of land I have men at command  
And I've always a silver to spare.  
So be easy and free when you're drinking with me.  
I'm a man you don't meet every day.

So come fill up your glasses of brandy and wine.  
Whatever it costs, I will pay.  
So be easy and free when you're drinking with me.  
I'm a man you don't meet every day.”

Tiresias began to whistle, tapping his knee along as he did. He nearly always did so when he sang a song of his own. Pausing the words to whistle. Jory asked him why once and the man just shrugged.

_“It’s how I heard it,” he said._

However this whistling didn’t last long and Tiresias dropped back into the ballad.

Well I took out my dog, with him I did shoot  
All down in the country, where I fared.  
So be easy and free when you're drinking with me.  
I'm a man you don't meet every day.

So come fill up your glasses of brandy and wine.  
Whatever it costs, I will pay.  
So be easy and free when you're drinking with me.  
I'm a man you don't meet every day.

So be easy and free when you're drinking with me.  
I'm a man you don't meet every day.”

He ended the song softly, going back into himself. Jory applauded lightly, and Tiresias waved it off.

“You know another?” asked Gendry.

Tiresias shrugged. “Sure. You want another?”

“Aye,” Gendry said, before going back to the blade.

The librarian took a draught from his skin, before taking a breath.

“The things a crow puts in his nest—”

“I wouldn’t do that if I’d were you.”

They all paused, turning to the new voice. A knight at the neighboring fire twisted around to face them.

“Why not?” asked Jory. Tiresias remained quiet, just peering at the knight. “Does my friend here not sing well?”

“Jory…” murmured Tiresias.

“He does,” said the knight. He turned to check behind him, before coming back. “But the Mountain doesn’t care for singing.”

Jory didn’t fail to see Tiresias raise his head to the road, a light growing into his eyes.

“Ser Gregor is here?” he asked. Jory stared at the librarian. Was he…excited?

“On his way,” said the knight. “Alber here just heard. He and his men, they’re coming up right behind. Stopping here for the night. They’ll be here soon. He’s been in a foul mood since King's Landing. More so than usual, so they say. Lost the joust there, then the melee. No prize purse.”

He lowered his eyes. “I heard he once choked a singer in a tavern. Man had a prettier voice than you, stranger. And now, he doesn’t have a voice at all.” The knight shrugged. “Just figured you should know.”

With that, he turned back to his own fire. Gendry and Jory looked at each other, and then to Tiresias, who was back in his own world. He was staring at the flames again. More intensely than ever.

“Tiresias?” prodded Jory.

The librarian started and looked to them. He breathed, his shoulders dropping.

“Keep sharpening that sword, Gendry. It’s all right. Just keep to yourself.”

Gendry looked to Jory, who nodded. Soon, the blade was singing again. Jory found himself breathing with the steel sliding across the stone. He looked to Tiresias, who was peering back toward the road. He squinted himself. The many surrounding campfires gave him better sight in the darkness, but nothing significant. He wondered what Tiresias saw, when he would see the hulking beast of a man coming toward them.

Nobody spoke for a while. Enough time had gone by that, had this been a normal evening, they would lay down to sleep by now. However, all three remained upright and they weren’t the only ones. As Jory glanced around, especially near the Den’s entrance, like they were, he saw no one lying down.

Word had gotten around, it seems. The Mountain was coming. It was just a question of when. Until he passed, no one felt safe sleeping.

Finally, Tiresias took a breath. “He’s here,” he said softly. “Jory, you should sheath your steel.”

Jory stared at him. “What? You think he’ll see the naked blade and think it’s a challenge?”

“Do you want to give him the opening to fuck with us?” asked Tiresias calmly.

Hoping he wouldn’t appear too cowardly, Jory reached for sword. Gendry wiped it down and handed it to him right away. He sheathed just in time to turn about and see the halfgiant monster by the first line of campfires.

Others followed him out of the darkness. The Mountain had his squires, his servants and his band of shorter monsters who followed Ser Gregor like ducklings. He heard stories of them from his time in the Red Keep. There, they were somewhat restrained. Due to the Royal Court and the potential wrath of Lord Tywin, but here…no wonder Tiresias told him to sheath his steel.

“Jory, turn back around. Don’t stare. Same goes for you, Gendry.”

This time, he didn’t hesitate to obey Tiresias’ order. He faced the dwindling fire. Tiresias had let it starve for the past ten minutes. Keeping his ears open, he listened…

The horses came nearer. Laughter rang through the approaching party. The kind of laughter that made his skin crawl. They were coming closer. Not bothering to stop at any campfire.

Finally, they crossed by their site. As they did, he finally looked up. Carefully. The torches from Deep Den illuminated a banner of yellow with three black dogs. Ser Gregor was in front, dressed in his mail and tunic. He only guessed his infamous armor was carted behind in the back by that huge destrier.

The gates opened before they even reached them and the dreaded company entered Deep Den, their gross comradery fading as the gates shut again.

A collective sigh of relief rippled throughout the camp. Conversations stared up again, though a little muted from before.

Jory turned back to the fire. Tiresias was feeding it again, bringing the fire up to a medium blaze. His eyes looked rather set, his mouth lined.

“Ser?” He looked to Gendry. “I could sharpen the sword more for you. If you want.”

“I’m no Ser,” he responded. He must have told the boy that a hundred times over the last few sennights. “And it’s all right, Gendry. We’ll have more time tomorrow.”

Shortly after, Gendry laid down to sleep. Jory looked back to Tiresias. The man hadn’t moved this entire time.

“Tiresias…you all right?”

The librarian peered at him. Jory felt his breath caught. There was something…dangerous in Tiresias’ eyes.

He didn’t like it. “What’s going on?”

Tiresias exhaled through his nose. “This is the part of the journey where you don’t ask me questions, Jory. I may disappear for a time. Doesn’t matter. You don’t ask. Just keep low. Keep Gendry safe. And let me work. All right?”

What was this? Tiresias was perfectly amiable ever since King’s Landing. What did Ser Gregor’s arrival spark in him? What was his plan?

“Jory, I need to hear you say it.”

Jory swallowed. “All right.”

Tiresias relaxed, his eyes falling to the fire again. “We’ll have to start riding a little ahead of the caravan. Keep out of their sight. We’ll start early tomorrow morning. I’ll wake us.”

With that, he laid down. He turned his back to the fire, facing Deep Den. Jory pulled his blanket over. But he didn’t fall asleep for the longest time.

When he finally faded into dreams, one thought crossed his conscious again and again:

_Just what the hell are you planning, Tiresias?_

* * *

He had fully expected to be shaken awake in the predawn. However when he opened his eyes and saw sunlight streaming through the trees and other men already awake, rousing their camps, he jumped up, sure that he overslept. He did. This certainly wasn’t the early rise that Tiresias demanded the night before.

However when he looked over, he saw the librarian still asleep, snoring softly. Jory laughed lightly. He was tempted not to wake the man, let him sleep. However, he remembered the look in the man’s eyes last night. He was determined to ride ahead.

_I’ll give him five more minutes._

He instead turned to the young blacksmith, shaking him awake.

“Gendry? Gendry, wake up.”

Gendry stirred and sat awake, not quite opening his eyes until he was leaning against the log. He peered through heavy eyes at Tiresias and looked to Jory.

“Should we wake him?”

“I will in a minute. In the meantime, let’s get the horses packed and this campfire turned. That way, we’ll be ready to go when he wakes.”

They went about cleaning their campsite, having become very proficient at it over the last few sennights. Although they tried to be quiet, the other camps were readying themselves and Tiresias was beginning to stir.

Finally Jory tied the last of the smoked beef to his horse when he heard Tiresias sit up. The librarian looked around him and then to Jory. He looked rather embarrassed.

“It’s past dawn, isn’t it?” he sighed.

“Aye.”

Tiresias stood up and stretched, throwing his arms up. “I smell bacon and bread.” He sighed, looking to the Deep Den.

Jory sighed himself. “Not for us, I’m afraid. We have enough provisions for two days. Sure we’ll find something by then.”

“I’m sorry for last night,” said Tiresias quietly. “I shouldn’t demand something like that unless I’m able to stick to it myself.”

“Ah,” said Jory, waving it away. “We all oversleep sometimes. Everyone here is eating now, anyway. We leave shortly, keep a good pace…we’ll stay ahead.”

Tiresias nodded. “Thank you.”

“Jory? Tiresias?” said Gendry.

“Yes?” said Tiresias as they turned to the lad. Gendry wasn’t looking to them. They followed his gaze. He was staring straight at the trail that led to the Goldroad.

A man was walking erratically up the trail, making for Deep Den. Strangled cries came from him. Tiresias moved past Gendry, stepping in front of him. Jory came forward as well. The man continued to approach and soon he was close enough for Jory to see tears streaming from his eyes. And also to recognize him...

It was the innkeeper from down the Goldroad. The inn with the mountain river and the bacon and pepper biscuits and the blonde serving girl…

He turned to Tiresias. “What’s going on?”

Tiresias shook his head. “I don’t know.”

The innkeeper walked past them onto the fortress. The other knights and stewards who camped outside were coming to the trail. With probably as many questions as they had.

The gates were open and the innkeeper staggered through them. They heard him yell, his voice creaking and hoarse.

“Lord Lydden! I wish to see Lord Lydden, I demand justice…I demand justice!”

Tiresias turned to Gendry. “Gendry, stay here with the horses. We’ll be back.”

He strode toward Deep Den immediately, leaving no room for an argument. Jory followed, nodding back to Gendry, who seemed stunned. He couldn’t blame him. Most of those witnessing this had the same look on their face.

He caught up with Tiresias at the entrance of the fortress. They passed through the gates, only because everyone inside the courtyard was staring stunned after the innkeeper who was stalking toward the Great Hall.

“Lord Lydden, I demand justice! Hear me, please!”

A crowd began to follow the innkeeper into the Great Hall. Soldiers seemed to come to their senses and began to approach the man.

Tiresias made to move forward, but Jory grabbed his arm.

“Tiresias, we should go!” he hissed. “We’ve already intruded enough.”

“Jory, let me go right now,” Tiresias muttered back. He was calm enough to give Jory pause. “Just walk with the crowd. We’re all intruding together. Come on.”

Against his better judgment, he released Tiresias’ arm and together, they followed the many people entering the Great Hall. They certainly weren’t the only ones from the campgrounds bordering the fortress.

Entering the Great Hall, they walked into a silent breakfast. Well, almost silent. A man at the high table was demanding an explanation from his guards.

“You allow him to enter like this! Disrupting our meal! Disturbing our noble guests!”

“Apologies, my lord. We’ll…”

“Just get rid of him, for the sake of the Seven!”

“No!” shouted the innkeeper. “No! Lord Lydden, I beg you. I beg you. Please hear me. I ask for justice.”

“There's a time for asking, you dolt!” yelled Lord Lydden, his beard shivering. He swallowed and forced himself to calm. “Now leave immediately. If you wish to be heard, you will come back when I hear petitions! You’re lucky I don’t throw you in shackles!”

“They’ll be gone by then!” shrieked the innkeeper. Two guards had taken ahold of him and were beginning to drag him away. “He raped Layna! They all did! They killed Simos! And he’ll just…”

Lord Lydden raised his hand and the guards stopped, still holding the innkeeper who seemed to collapse against them, breaking into sobs.

“Please, Lord Lydden, please…I beg you…I beg for you for justice.”

“Against whom?” asked Lord Lydden. His voice shook, but not out of anger. Was he dreading the answer? “Henri, who raped Layna? Who killed Simos?”

Nothing but the innkeeper’s sobs could be heard. Finally, Henri collected himself enough to raise his hand and point. The whole room followed his finger to the tallest man in the room, even when seated.

“Ser Gregor Clegane...” Henri swallowed, but he still continued, his voice trembling all the while. “Last night…Ser Gregor raped Layna…as…as they all…Simos tried…tried to stop…they killed him…put…put a sword through his stomach…”

Ser Gregor sat quite still with his other men; their breakfast completely forgotten. They stared back and forth between Henri the innkeeper and Ser Gregor, wondering how their master would react. The other lords and ladies remained silent, their gazes falling to their plates.

A bald man stood from Ser Gregor’s table and started to whisper in his ear.

Jory was a Northman. He knew next to nothing of the Westerlands and their politics, save for house banners and names. But it was common knowledge that Ser Gregor was Lord Tywin’s dog. To cross this monster of a man was to cross the Lord Paramount. Someone that everyone in this hall was sworn to. And terrified of.

He saw it in Lord Lydden’s eyes. The man looked back and forth between Henri and Ser Gregor, trying to find a way out. Did he expect a slaughter in his hall? Jory almost did.

“Henri,” Lord Lydden quietly, yet his voice carried. “There are serious accusations…and Ser Gregor is entitled to a fair defense…this is hardly the appropriate place to bring forth…such charges…”

“Your son attacked us. We merely defended ourselves,” called out the bald man who was whispering to Ser Gregor. He crossed to the innkeeper, halting right before him.

“And we didn’t rape anyone. Your daughter’s a slut and you whored her out.”

“That’s a lie!” yelled Henri, straight into the man’s face. “She was grabbed, thrown to the table. She hit her nose and bled! She never offered—”

After staring at Henri in silent wonderment, the bald man started to laugh. When was the last time he'd seen a man disregard his own safety so freely?

“She never offered, aye? You took our coin, didn’t you?”

The bald man turned to Lord Lydden. “My Lord, we did pay the girl. She’s grown enough to accept coin, isn’t she?”

“She’s thirteen!” screamed the innkeeper. “She’s not grown! She’s thirteen!” His scream was unhinged. The man was beginning to break.

A few in the crowd swallowed their reactions, but nobody spoke. A great silence permeated the hall. 

The bald man shrugged. “Thirteen…doesn’t matter. She still took our coin.”

Lord Lydden took a deep breath. “Is this true, Henri? Did Layna take the coin?”

The innkeeper began to shake his head. “No…no…”

“Henri, tell me truly. Did Layna take the coin?”

“She did not!” Henri reached into this jacket and pulled out a purse. He threw it down to the bald man. “There’s the coin. They threw it to the floor…only picked it up this morning…I started for here…to reject it…throw it back.”

His speech was becoming more erratic. Jory wanted nothing more than to leave, but he couldn’t move.

The bald man picked up the coin purse, tossing it in his hand, before turning to Lord Lydden.

“It’s obvious, my lord. I know what’s happened here. This man, this innkeeper,” he pointed to Henri. “He’s not demanding justice at all. He wants proper compensation for his daughter’s services. Which we did enjoy.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps in the heat of the moment, and under drink, we didn’t pay enough. And he’s determined to get more coin out of us.”

The innkeeper began to tremble as he raised his head, staring at the bald man.

_What the hell is going on?_

The bald man continued. He even spoke out to the hall. “We killed his son out of fear for our own lives. We paid the girl for what we enjoyed. If there’s any crime we committed back at this man’s establishment, my Lord, it’s theft. Theft of services.”

Lord Lydden had lost control of his hall and he knew it. The bald man spoke, but Jory still saw the eyes move to the Mountain seated at his table. Ser Gregor was staring at the innkeeper with a bloodlust.

“We disagree, of course,” said the bald man. “But, should you bring that charge against Ser Gregor Clegane, against us all…well, we’ll be happy to argue it. Won’t we, boys?”

Judging from the smiles and jeers from the Mountain’s men, they all affirmed it. Ser Gregor himself remained silent. They all quieted though and looked to Lord Lydden, who was gripping his hands so tightly they turned white.

The bald man nodded his head. “Bring the charge, Lord Lydden. Go on. We’re men of honor. We’ll face it.”

Lord Lydden’s face carried such a hatred as he and the bald man stared at each other. However the narrative was now set and if he didn’t wish to oppose Tywin Lannister’s dog, there was only one course forward for the Lord of Deep Den.

Clearing his throat, Lord Lewys faced Ser Gregor.

“Ser Gregor,” he stated. At least his voice was steady. “I charge you, and your men present, with theft of services. Brought forth by Henri the innkeeper.”

Henri seemed to realize what was happening and he tried to speak. However, no words seem able to come. Lord Lydden continued.

“How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” said Ser Gregor, speaking for the first time. His voice matched his size, a rumble that was heard easily throughout the hall.

Ser Gregor slowly shifted his focus to Lord Lydden, his black eyes fixed on him.

“I demand a trial by combat.”

The lords and ladies present couldn’t hide their murmurs. Jory closed his eyes, dropping his head. This was such a fucking farce. He needed to get out of here. He wanted to, but something held him. It was like he owed Henri to see this through.

The bald man turned to Lord Lydden. “No need, I think, for us all to gang up on poor Henri. I believe that since it’s only one man accusing us, it’s only right that Ser Gregor fights for us all. We’re either all innocent, should Ser Gregor triumph!”

Laughter came from Ser Gregor’s table. The bald man raised his hand to silence them.

“Or…we’re all guilty. Should Ser Gregor fall to Henri the innkeeper.”

The laugher returned with a vengeance, echoing throughout the silent hall. At this point, Lord Lydden could only contain the blood split in his lands as well as he could. He nodded jerkily.

“That seems…reasonable.”

“Isn’t it though?” said the bald man. He walked back to the table and picked up his mug. “If I may, my Lord, I say we all finish our breakfast and have the trial in the yard, shortly thereafter. We need to get back on the road and Henri here…he needs to get back to his inn.”

The bald man raised his cup to Henri before drinking. The innkeeper had fresh tears streaming down his cheek. The guards by his side were not so much holding him back as they were supporting him. Jory saw the disgust on their faces. On most of the faces in the hall. There was also fear…and resignation.

Henri raised his head to Lord Lydden. “M'lord,” he moaned softly. “M'lord, please…”

Anger rose in Lord Lydden’s eyes as he regarded Henri. Jory knew where he was coming from. The innkeeper brought trouble and demanded justice from those he couldn’t demand justice from. And now there will be even more blood spilled.

However, as Lord Lydden regarded Henri, his eyes softened and he answered the innkeeper’s pleas…as well as he could…

“Henri,” he said. “It’s your right...to have a champion fight for you in this trial. Should anyone volunteer.”

The murmurs were silenced once again. Even from Ser Gregor’s table. Henri stared at Lord Lydden with eyes dazed. His mouth opened and closed several times before he spoke.

“Ch-champion…m'lord?”

“Yes, Henri. A champion. Do you wish to ask for one?”

The innkeeper didn’t move for several seconds. Jory saw this before in the Greyjoy Rebellion. Men so overwhelmed they stopped functioning. He never thought he would see it outside of battle.

Henri finally lowered his head. No one in the hall could construe it for affirmation. But Lord Lydden nodded and raised his head to address the Great Hall.

Jory sighed. Why not? This whole morning has been horseshit, anyway.

“The innkeeper, Henri, seeks a volunteer to represent him against Ser Gregor Clegane in trial by combat.”

The vast majority of the Hall didn’t even meet the Lord’s eyes.

“Is there anyone who will volunteer on his behalf?”

Silence reigned in the Great Hall. Lord Lydden continued to look out as the seconds passed.

“Anyone?” he asked again.

His voice was quite calm, evenly lordly for the first time since this whole mess began. But even that didn’t pierce the silence.

Henri started to quake, as he raised his head again.

“M'Lord…m'lord, I…”

“I’ll stand for the innkeeper.”

Jory froze. His mind numb. That soft voice…came from his side…where Tiresias was…

He looked, but Tiresias was gone. The slender librarian had already walked forward through a sea of whispers, as all present turned their eyes to the stranger who spoke. Tiresias kept his eyes forward, halting a few paces in front of the innkeeper.

_No…gods damn it, man, no!_

But it was too late. The furious whispering calmed and turned into a deep silence as the hall got a good look at the volunteer champion. Tiresias answered the silence with his own. Slim and swordless, he faced Lord Lydden, waiting for the stunned host to speak.

Jory tried to shout, to stop it all, but he couldn’t speak. His voice was trapped in his throat. He couldn’t move at all. All he could do was wait to hear who spoke next. Assuming he could even hear them over the pounding of his own pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because sometimes you just gotta grab fate by the horns.
> 
> In the books (A Clash of Kings), the story was that the Mountain assaulted Layna after the Tourney of the Hand and her brother was killed then. However, as the show never mentioned her and since I’m adhering to the show for this fic with book details thrown in as I need or wish them, I decided to include her. Besides I can’t imagine that Layna was the first tavern girl Clegane and his men have attacked on the road.
> 
> So yeah, that’s all the explanation I have. If this divergence is too much, I understand. But it's happening.
> 
> That’s not the only change I made. For any fans of the Pogues, I altered the lyrics slightly for “I’m a Man You Don’t Meet Everyday” so Tiresias could sing it in Westeros without raising too many eyebrows. Here’s a link to the song down below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6gZxg3bOcs
> 
> And that’s all. See you next Tuesday!


	30. Chapter Thirty

Tiresias set his quill down, staring at the letter. It took him a few attempts to actually read the whole thing through. When reading, he would blink and realize that he hadn’t absorbed the previous paragraph at all.

However, he finally got through it. He folded and sealed the parchment. The smell of wax lingered in the air as he gazed down upon it. This was the most detailed letter he’d ever written to Lord Stark. When going beyond the Wall, when stalking the Lonely Hills…he’d always entertained some notion that he would come back. That his chances of returning to Winterfell, to the library, to the Starks, to a pair of brown eyes remained high. Now, however…

There was a sick smell in his throat. Bile threatened to come up. He got up from the desk and went over to the fire, determined to be calm. He braced himself against the stone hearth. Staring into the flames, he breathed in on a count, held it and released…again…and again…

Finally his stomach settled. He returned to the desk and retrieved the letter, securing it inside his rucksack, where the other package for Lord Stark lay.

Afterwards, he took in his surroundings for what felt like the hundredth time. Lord Lydden, once he had found his voice again, gave him this room to ready his affairs. Judging by the light, he had only a couple hours left.

Tiresias crossed his right leg over his left and reached for his toes, easily placing his palms squarely on the floor. He remained in that position for a solid minute before coming back up, feeling the blood descend from his skull.

He saw Oberyn’s eyes being pushed in, his own skull erupting from the pressure, brains and blood spilling onto the ground…

That image only seemed to still Tiresias further. He couldn’t bring the will to shake it off.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood still. When he was finally able to, he turned back to the desk, before remembering that he had already finished the letter. He cursed himself lightly. All the time he spent in this room, he was able to get through by continuing to work. Writing when he couldn’t stretch. Stretching and preparing when he couldn’t write…

_At this rate, I’ll be the most limber corpse they’ve ever seen…_

A large part of him was so heavy. It made him want to simply sit still, gazing at the wall numbly until it was time to die.

“No,” he stated lowly. “No. No, not today. Not today.”

Those words…did they mean anything to him? He was no water-dancer from Braavos, no Faceless Man, not even a warrior. He was just a barely competent assassin, a librarian…

He couldn’t claim to be anything else. Regardless of his abilities. Not to himself. Not in front of Henri or Jory or Lord Lydden…

_He had never been such a focus in a room before. Certainly not intending to be when he followed the innkeeper into the hall. He wanted to say that he was just as surprised that he volunteered as anyone else._

_But that obviously was not the case. Determined to keep his eyes on Lord Lydden, he still sensed the collective shock of all who witnessed it. How it varied even. The deepening daze of the innkeeper. The bald man’s befuddlement, shared by the other men who rode with Ser Gregor. The absolute confusion of the highborn who had forgotten their breakfasts in lieu of what was happening in front of them._

_Tiresias maintained eye contact with Lord Lydden, waiting for him to respond. He swallowed as discretely as he could before he was called to speak. Finally the Lord, after blinking several times, cleared his throat._

_“You… you’ll fight in Henri’s place?”_

_“Aye,” said Tiresias, nodding. “Aye, it’s what I said.”_

_He spoke softly. If he spoke any louder, he was sure that his voice would crack. Nevertheless the hall was quiet enough that his low voice carried to the walls._

_Suppressing an urge to clench his hands into fists, he waited for the Lord to speak. He could hear the beginnings of laughter from Ser Gregor’s table. Though he was sure the Mountain himself was quite silent. He could feel his black eyes on his frame._

_“Your name, Ser?” asked Lord Lydden._

_Tiresias took a breath. “Tiresias. However, I’m afraid I need to correct you, Lord Lydden. I’m no Ser. I’m not a knight.”_

_He prayed that would be the end of it. That Lord Lydden would clap his hands and move this charade along. That he could suffer the consequences of his own brash stupidity, without any more questions._

_However, he must have prayed to the wrong god._

_“Where do you hail from, Tiresias?” the Lord of Deep Den continued._

_“Essos.”_

_Lord Lydden’s brows furrowed. “Are you a sellsword?”_

_“No, Lord Lydden. I’m a librarian.”_

_That punctured the crowd’s silence; murmuring from the lords and ladies, growing laughter from the Mountain’s men, a few groans from sympathetic onlookers. He could feel Jory’s bulging eyes on the back of his head. A small part of him was impressed that the Winterfell guard could keep his silence for this._

_Lord Lydden sat back down, looking a little crest-fallen._

_“It’s usually soldiers or sellswords who volunteer to fight, Essosi,” he said. “And usually, no foreigners. This is…well...most unusual.”_

_Tiresias braced himself. “I suppose. Although you were willing to have an innkeeper fight just now. I may be a stranger in these lands, however I can’t help but feel that this trial-by-combat is playing rather loose with the rules.”_

_If he expected Lord Lydden to be outraged or embarrassed by this statement, he found himself slightly impressed when the Lord merely looked sad. This was not the state of affairs he expected to find himself in when he entered his hall for breakfast._

_Beginning to feel the energy drain from his body, Tiresias voiced his request._

_“If I may, my Lord, and should Ser Gregor be so kind, I would like some time to settle my affairs and prepare for the trial. I’m sorry to say that I didn’t wake up this morning ready to duel.”_

_“Not ready to die either, aye?” called the bald man. The Mountain’s men began to laugh, unconcerned for the disgusted looks thrown their way, even by Lord Lydden, who was glaring at the bald man._

_Before the lord could respond though, Tiresias heard himself begin to chuckle. It wasn’t completely his choice. Another five minutes and he might go crazy with fear. He had to move quickly._

_He turned to the bald man, still laughing lightly. The bald man paused in his own laughter, looking bewildered._

_“I don’t think any man wakes up ready to die, Polliver,” he said calmly. Polliver’s smile dropped entirely as he stared at Tiresias._

_However, the librarian ignored him and turned back to Lord Lydden. “But he should be able to prepare for it, should he not? Lord Lydden, may I have a few hours? Even a criminal sentenced to death is allowed time to reflect."_

_Lord Lydden considered his words, pursing his lips. Finally he stood._

_“The trial-by-combat will take place at sundown. In the inner hall.” He turned to Ser Gregor. “I’m sure Ser Gregor would be willing to enjoy our hospitality a while longer.”_

_The crowd turned for the Mountain’s response. Tiresias steeled himself and for the first time, looked to Ser Gregor. The man’s eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. He tried to make his eyes go soft, to betray no emotion. Did it work? Or did Clegane see the growing fear in his eyes? It was probably a common enough sight._

_Maybe that’s what convinced Clegane to accept. The Mountain’s expression didn’t change. He merely turned to Lord Lydden, who managed to meet his eyes as well._

_“Sundown,” he rumbled quietly before continuing to eat._

_Tiresias exhaled as discretely as he could. His apparent doom was decided and scheduled._

His hand went automatically to his side and found nothing.

“Son of a bitch,” he murmured, completely forgetting about the dagger. He longed to have it with him in this room.

_You’ll get it back. _He told himself. _Gendry knows how to sharpen the hell of a blade._

It was the other request that gave the young blacksmith pause. It was a moment of inspired instruction, given in haste. He just hoped he hadn’t made another huge mistake.

After Lord Lydden declared that the trial will go forward at sundown, Tiresias walked back to a stupefied Jory. The Winterfell guard opened his mouth but no words came out. Tiresias took the opening and instructed him to fetch Gendry from outside. Still stunned and just scrambling for anything to do, Jory turned and exited the hall.

Tiresias was alone. With only murmurings for company. If he raised his eyes, perhaps he would also see looks of pity, sympathy, maybe a few admirers. His hands were beginning to shake and he cursed himself, before employing the breathing exercise. It wouldn’t do for any onlookers to see him break down.

Not like Henri. The innkeeper was escorted, or rather carried, past him. He felt the man’s eyes go to him, but he couldn’t meet them.

Something clicked in his mind. Something almost reptilian. He had work to do.

Turning back to the high table, he approached Lord Lydden with a few more requests, muttering quietly. The Lord of Deep Den ascertained his request for a space to prepare and for his two companions to freely visit him. The Lord’s eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline when Tiresias also requested to borrow a weapon from the armory, but to this, he also agreed. He wondered whether he was the first man to challenge Ser Gregor with no weapon.

The only bit of luck this whole morning was that Lord Lydden was no sadist. He would gain no joy watching an unarmed stranger being sliced in two by the Mountain.

Despite his throat becoming increasingly tight, Tiresias thanked Lord Lydden and he was escorted out of the hall. He thought he could feel the Mountain’s eyes as he exited. However as he looked back, Ser Gregor’s focus had returned to his meal.

Back in his room, Tiresias glanced at the corner when the pole-staff and pads were piled. Along with the weapon he selected, he also borrowed some leathers. True, Lord Lydden didn’t explicitly say he could use them, but none of his escorts said anything as he took them. The pole-staff wasn’t what he selected for the duel but he needed something to warm-up with while Gendry made the modification.

It had been a while since he had sent Gendry upon his task. The lad entered this room with wide eyes. Evidently Jory found his tongue outside the keep and informed him of what transpired. However Tiresias couldn’t waste time. The day would be gone before he knew it.

He gave the lad his requests, and while Gendry voiced his concerns, he still took the weapons and promised to have both back well before sundown.

Abundant time had passed since Jory left as well. He left to monitor Gendry’s progress hours ago and Tiresias had requested privacy while he composed his letter. He needed silence, the kind of silence where one could hear his own heart beating loudly.

Jory wasn’t comfortable with that kind of silence. Not today. Not with what he just witnessed. Tiresias couldn’t blame him…

_As soon as Gendry left with the weapons, Jory turned to him._

_Tiresias met the guard’s eyes. “Just say it, Jory. For god's sake.”_

_“What the fuck were you thinking?” hissed Jory. The words came out short, with pauses scattered in between. He was struggling to keep composed. _

_Tiresias, on the hand, couldn’t even shrug. “I wasn’t really,” he murmured. The calmness of his voice surprised him. Perhaps numbness was the more correct word. Once he was out of sight of the strangers and Lord Lydden and the Mountain…his fear, which threatened to overtake him in the hall, was now replaced with a lethargy._

_Which proceeded to frighten him all over again. He couldn’t face anyone with dead limbs._

_He heard Jory scoff and throw himself into a chair. “I suppose that’s obvious.”_

_Silence weighed on them both. Needing to break out of it, despite it being warm already, Tiresias knelt before the hearth and proceeded to light a fire._

_“Was this part of your plan?” asked Jory._

_Tiresias turned to stare at him. “What? The rape, the deranged innkeeper, the Mountain’s man bullying Lord Lydden into trial by combat? Think I planned that?”_

_“No! No, I mean…” Jory leaned forward, glancing to the door before lowering his voice. “Ever since King’s Landing, you’ve been staring daggers at the Mountain. And last night you told us we were to ride ahead. When we saw Clegane enter Deep Den. Not five minutes after and you said that. Was this the mission all along? To…to see to him?”_

_To see to him? What a way to put it. He knew he had to lie. Jory was too good._

_“Jory…there is no mission. I just…”_

_Saw an opportunity he couldn’t pass? An assassination at night could work. But a trial by combat at sundown? With highborn witnesses? A legal way to bring down Lord Tywin’s monster…_

_If he even could…_

_He shook his head. “I don’t like it when people abuse their station to hurt those below…Jory, you saw her. She’s thirteen. I…”_

_A lump in his throat threatened to choke him. Rosie came before him. The relief in her dead clear eyes…_

_He swallowed before continuing._

_“As I said…I wasn’t thinking.”_

_Jory placed his head in his hands and sighed. Tiresias turned back to the flames._

_“I did warn you not to come along.”_

_“Well, forgive me, you shit.” Jory looked back up. “When I promised Lord Stark I’d escort you back to Winterfell, I didn’t think it’d be a funeral procession.”_

_Tiresias got up from the fire and started to stretch, pressing against the wall._

_“Perhaps not. If Gendry comes back. If he comes back with what I need…”_

_“Tiresias, you can’t beat him.”_

_He didn’t look at Jory, just continued to breathe in and out, feeling the tension in his calf disperse. “Why not?”_

_Jory had to find his voice again before speaking. “You saw him, aye? The Mountain? Ser Gregor? That fucking giant in yellow?”_

_“I’ve fought big men before.”_

_“Listen to me, Tiresias…” He heard the creak in the chair as Jory leaned forward. “This isn’t a spar with Gord. I can spar with Gord. I can win against Gord. Clegane…the Mountain…you know who he is?”_

_Tiresias stood away from the wall and turned, meeting Jory’s eye._

_“He’s one of the most intimidating fighters in Westeros, if not the most,” Tiresias stated blithely. “Tywin Lannister’s mad dog. His strength is freakish. It allows him to wear thick, heavy armor that would be dead weight to any other man. We saw it last night in the wagon. Along with that two-handed greatsword. Except he only needs one hand to wield it. And he swings it fucking fast. He’s quicker than one would think for a man his size. Sound ‘bout right?”_

_Jory stared at him. “You’ve seen him fight?”_

_Not in the flesh. “No.”_

_“Well, I have. The Greyjoy Rebellion. He was there and I’ll tell you what; it was the only time I felt sorry for the Ironborn. Those he came across. He doesn’t fight, Tiresias. He demolishes. Relishes in what he can do.”_

_And now that relish for violence will be directed at me, bemused Tiresias. He sat on the carpet and reached out, grabbing his toes._

_Jory sighed, putting his face in his hands. “What am I supposed to say to Lord Stark?”_

_“I’ll write him a letter for you.”_

_“You idiot!” Jory knelt down to his face, his voice coming down to a harsh whisper. “You think you can explain all this madness in a letter? That Lord Stark will understand this?”_

_“He must,” Tiresias replied, as evenly as he could. “He has no choice. And neither do you. And I’m sorry for that. I really am. I know I took you along in a horrible situation.”_

_He pressed his body down along his legs, flat against the ground._

_“But it’s done. And I must act accordingly. As well as I can.”_

_“Tiresias…listen to me, please.”_

_He looked up to the young guard. Jory’s voice was soft, his anger and his bewilderment spent. Now he just looked at Tiresias with sad eyes._

_“You…beating the Mountain…it’s…it’s impossible...you’re not stronger than him…no one is.”_

_“I don’t need to be stronger than him, Jory. I just need to be quicker.”_

_Tiresias sat up, giving Jory his full attention. “But I also need your help. Not just before the duel, but during and after…will you be there, Jory? Regardless of what happens? I would like someone familiar with me.”_

_Jory’s sadness disappeared slowly from his eyes, to be replaced by a steadfast determination. He saw Ser Rodrik in the young man’s eyes. Jory sighed again, before nodding._

_“What do you need?”_

_He exhaled. “For now, not much. Just some privacy while I stretch, prepare and write down my last message for Lord Stark. Well…hopefully not my last. If you could, be with Gendry, make sure he’s getting what he needs. Return with him when he’s done.”_

_“Do you want some food?”_

_Tiresias shook his head. “No, no…don’t think I could eat anything anyway.”_

_Jory stood. “I’ll make sure you’re sent something. Even it’s just bread and dried meat. Something light. When you fight at sundown, you’ll need your strength.”_

_“All right,” Tiresias replied automatically._

_The young Cassel crossed to the door, pausing before it._

_“I’ll only say this once, my friend,” he said turning back to the librarian. “You should have left the innkeeper to his fate.”_

_And with that, Jory exited, shutting the door promptly, leaving Tiresias no chance to respond. Not that he could. A large part of him agreed with Jory._

That was hours ago. A servant had come and deposited a large tray of bread, cheese, cured meats and a single, green apple. Along with two pitchers, one filled with ale and the other water. Tiresias left the ale alone, but he ate everything else slowly throughout the day. He kept everything down, surprisingly.

He patted the rucksack with the hidden package and letter. He did hope Jory wouldn’t suffer the wrath of Lord Stark for failing to bring him home. Trying to explain why he did what he did was quite challenging. How does one explain insanity? In the end, he simply wrote that too many people would die idiotically trying to kill the eldest Clegane.

_Have I added myself to that list of idiots?_

He laughed genuinely at the thought. Loudly too. It felt good. To truly laugh. He didn’t have much time left…

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called. The door opened with Gendry, sweating, sooty and slightly panting. He carried a long package wrapped in cloth. Jory followed, shutting the door behind him.

No one spoke for a minute.

“Yes?” said Tiresias.

“It’s done,” said Gendry breathlessly. “What you asked…I think I got it right. Didn’t upset the balance too much.”

He handed the package to Tiresias, who took it carefully. He unwrapped it to reveal the spear that he selected from the armory. A sheath still covered the blade. He ran his fingers down the shaft, all the way to the other end, to the modification.

A small copper knob was newly welded to the bottom of the shaft. Tiresias covered it completely with his fist, cool to the touch. It wasn’t pretty, but it would do for what he had planned. He stood away from Jory and Gendry and twirled it slowly. A little unusual, weighted, but not anything he couldn’t handle.

He propped it up with two fingers and held it steady for several seconds. The balance was still good.

Bringing it down, he turned back to the young blacksmith. “Good work, Gendry. Good work. This will do.”

Gendry sighed in relief. He probably worked as fast as he could without messing it up.

“I got the blade too.” He pointed to the end. “If you wish…if you want to see.”

Carefully, Tiresias removed the padding and examined the edge. It gleamed in the firelight.

“I can’t believe you selected a spear,” Jory said wearily, interrupting his admiration. “You’re seriously going to fight the Mountain with a spear?”

“I like spears,” Tiresias replied. “Besides, a spear will counter his reach.”

Jory had nothing to say to that. Tiresias covered the blade again and laid it against the desk. He didn’t measure it, but it was at least a couple of feet taller than him.

Gendry cleared his throat. “Also,” he said, reaching behind him. “I, um…I took care of this.”

He held out Tiresias’ dagger. The blade shined more sharply than it did when Mikken first handed it to him. Tiresias took the hilt, twirling it lightly before placing it in the sheath on his belt. It felt good to have that weight on his hip again.

His head was getting light again and he breathed slowly.

“You all right?” said Jory.

“Aye, aye,” he muttered, sitting back down. “Thank you, Gendry. For everything.” He gestured to the pitchers. “Why don’t you have some ale? I didn’t touch it.”

Gendry nodded and poured himself a mug. Jory and Tiresias were left to look at each other.

“How much time?”

Jory sighed. “An hour. Maybe less. We saw the Septon arriving.”

“All right,” Tiresias murmured. “Guess I should suit up then.”

“I suppose so.” Jory went to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “I’ll go and survey the inner hall. Make sure it's all right.”

_He needs to walk. He can’t be in this silence._

Tiresias nodded. “Thank you.”

With that, Jory departed, leaving Tiresias alone with Gendry. He stood and walked over to the leathers. He picked them up, holding them before dropping them back to the floor.

“Tiresias,” he heard Gendry say. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know,” Tiresias responded before he could stop himself. “Well, I suppose so. Considering everything…”

He turned to see the boy biting his lip nervously.

Words failed him and he fell quiet, running his hands through his hair. Months on the run, away from Winterfell, have allowed his hair to run long and errant.

_He’s got the advantage on you there, don’t he? That short-cropped fucking hair…_

He paused, with his fingers in his mop.

_Who the hell said that? I remember once, but now…_

But a vague memory of it returned shortly. Another story which featured one man fighting a bigger one. Tiresias gave a soft hollow laugh.

“What is it?” asked Gendry, from behind him.

He shook his head, putting away the question. There was at least one advantage he had here though, compared to Dan Dority. He’d be carrying a blade. Two even.

_Still…best not give that edge._

“Gendry?”

“Aye?” said Gendry, jumping to his feet.

“You know how to shear, don’t you?”

The lad suppressed his confused look and nodded. Tiresias looked to the young blacksmith.

“I need one more favor from you.”

* * *

The last of the sun was disappearing in the inner hall, the light traveling from the stone floor to the wall opposite the glass windows. Torches were lit and the two hearths blazed. The floor was cleared to make ample room for the Mountain and a librarian.

This was the hall where Lord Lydden received petitioners and conducted his duties. Tonight that involved watching this farce play out to its conclusion.

Lord Lydden already sat in his chair, before his banner. A badger against a background of green and brown. The colors of the forest that surrounded his keep.

Jory sighed. At least he was taking responsibility for this. The innkeeper was also seated before him, flanked by two guards. He looked grey and didn’t seem capable of even lifting his head.

A Septon also stood by Lord Lydden’s side. Along with several houseguards, the castle maester and a few more lords of the Westerlands, who had agreed to stay on as witnesses. Having learned that this foreign librarian was employed by Winterfell and that he'd have to answer to a Lord Paramount either way, Lord Lydden was determined to follow protocol and asked for their formal presence. Jory noted Lord Brax of Hornvale and Lord Prestor of Feastfires among them. He couldn’t remember any of the other banners present. His mind wasn’t staying still long enough to focus.

None of Lord Lydden’s party seemed to meet his eyes. They all stood still, staring blankly at the empty floor. Before a mangled, skinny man spilled his blood all over it.

_Stop, damn you, stop._

It made no difference. This duel would begin with that image, that fear in his head. Thinking it away wouldn’t work…Gods know that he’d been trying to ever since this morning.

It was just a matter of waiting. Ser Gregor was late. A messenger came to the hall and reported that he was still preparing. That was a half hour ago. Lord Lydden didn’t send a message back.

So they waited in silence. The shadows growing deeper. More torches were brought and the hall was bathed in firelight.

Tiresias didn’t face the empty dueling area. He sat cross-legged on the stone, in front of a hearth, facing the fire, staring into it. He was shirtless, wearing only thin leathered pads strapped to his elbows. His knees were padded as well, over his trousers. The sheathed dagger on his left hip. The buckles on his boots pulled tight.

That was it. No helmet. No shield. No breastplate. No mail.

He walked into the hall like that with Gendry at his side, provoking whispers amongst all who gathered. Jory whispered urgently, trying to make him see a little reason in this madness and to wear actual fucking armor.

Tiresias merely smiled grimly.

_“If the Mountain’s sword finds me, there’s no armor I can wear that would stop his blade. Nothing that wouldn’t hinder my speed. My speed is the only weapon I have, Jory.”_

He certainly did look light on his feet. Carrying that spear, shirtless, lightly padded with Mikken’s dagger at his side, he looked so bizarre that it took Jory a moment to notice that his hair was gone as well. Sheared to a short buzz.

After being informed that the Mountain would be late, Tiresias nodded and prowled the hall. He walked slowly over the stones in the floor, glancing from them to the pillars, taking in every inch of the dueling area. After a few moments, he straightened and walked back to the far hearth, settling in front of the fire.

He’s been still ever since, his shoulders rising calmly with each breath. Jory tried to match it. He needed to be calm. He had to be. If not for Tiresias' and his own sake, then at least for Gendry’s. He had promised Tiresias.

_“Promise me, Jory,” said Tiresias, holding out his rucksack. “Should I die, ride to Winterfell and give these items to Lord Stark. There’s a letter in there and a wrapped package. Don’t open them. Don’t even look at them. Just get them to Lord Stark.”_

_“I will,” Jory stated numbly. The words just stumbled out of his mouth, but he still meant them._

_“And Gendry. Get Gendry to Winterfell.”_

So…instead of Tiresias, he’d be escorting the King’s bastard back to Winterfell. It was hard not to blame himself. Even as he looked at Tiresias staring into the fire, the serene stubbornness in his eyes…

_Forgive me, Lord Stark. I tried._

Tiresias raised his head and turned to the other end of the room, to the door there. Still serene. Jory looked that way and focused his ears. He saw and heard nothing. He turned back to Tiresias, who exhaled through his nose, turning back to the flames.

“Gendry,” he stated softly. The lad knelt. “It’s time for you to leave this hall and not return until Jory gets you. No matter what you hear.”

They had discussed this before. Gendry wanted to stay, but Tiresias wouldn’t hear of it. Finally the lad agreed and so Gendry merely nodded before standing.

“Good luck,” he muttered, before looking to Jory. He nodded, dismissing the lad. Gendry exited the hall, his feet echoing dully across the stone.

When the door shut on him, Jory turned back to see Tiresias reaching into the fire.

He crossed to him. “What the hell are you doing?!” he hissed. Tiresias didn’t even turn to him.

“Jory, I’m not touching the flames. Relax.” Jory followed his arm and true enough, his fingers weren’t touching the blaze. They dipped below the grate.

Jory couldn’t help wincing. The ashes could still burn, but Tiresias’ face remained impassive as he brought his fingers, black with soot, from the hearth. He observed his fingers calmly, before drawing his fingers across both his cheekbones.

The librarian rose blithely, rubbing the rest of the soot on his hands, drying them. Jory stared down at them, before pointing at the soot marks.

“Care to explain that?”

Tiresias flexed his fingers. “It’s a reminder for you.”

“A reminder of what?”

Tiresias turned to him, meeting his eyes and Jory stilled. There was something dangerous in his eyes.

“If I die…burn me.”

Jory barely had enough time to nod before Tiresias knelt down and grabbed his spear. The protective sheath was still on the blade. He walked away from the hearth, his eyes on the opposite door. Jory followed him to the edge of the dueling area.

As they came to a halt, Jory heard it. Heavy footsteps, the metal clinking from the hallway, coming closer…

The guards heard it too, for they opened the door. All in the hall straightened to attention as the Mountain entered, followed by two of his men, one of whom was carrying his sword. The other, Tiresias said his name was Polliver, held his great shield.

Though not nearly as shocked as he was by Tiresias’ lack of armor, he was still surprised to see Ser Gregor’s full use of his. The only thing missing was his yellow surcoat.

_And his sabatons_, Jory noted, eyeing his feet. It seemed that Ser Gregor preferred his naked leather boots against the stone floor. More grip and more control.

Other than that, he had gone back to his wagon and donned his full protection. Plate over chainmail and boiled leather. His hands were covered in gauntlets. A flattop greathelm shielded his enormous head.

Despite his face being practically hidden, Jory could see the Mountain’s eyes from the openings in his helm as he stared directly at Tiresias. They seemed to burn black. He hoped his friend was putting on a brave front. He didn’t look to his side to check.

If Ser Gregor was surprised to see his opponent shirtless with only a few leathers, he didn’t show it. Unlike his two men, who exchanged sickening looks of glee, their grins becoming even wider.

_You fucking bastards…_

Lord Lydden muttered to the Septon and stood.

“Will the two champions approach?”

Tiresias immediately walked forward. Ser Gregor trudged to his side. They both maintained a healthy distance from one another, halting in front of the Lord of Deep Den. Lord Lydden cleared his throat.

“We are here to settle the matter between Ser Gregor Clegane, his men listed, and Henri the innkeeper. On charges of theft of wages. To which Ser Gregor has plead not guilty and, by his right, demanded a trial by combat. He has agreed to fight for himself and all of his accused men. Henri’s champion in this trial is the Essosi, Tiresias, who has volunteered of his own accord. Each man has had ample time to prepare.”

He took a breath, before turning to the Lords present.

“With these Lords bearing witness, having each made their marks on the document accounting this trial, do you, Ser Gregor Clegane, proclaim this accounting to be true and agree to fight?”

Steel rose and fell with the Mountain’s breathing. “Aye,” he rumbled. Even with Lord Lydden on the higher step, he towered above his host.

Lord Lydden turned to Tiresias. “And you?

“Aye, I do,” said Tiresias, his soft voice echoing in the hall.

The Lord nodded before continuing. “I must ask…will the two of you consider the notion of fighting to a yield and accepting quarter from the prevailing champion?”

Jory’s eyes went to the Mountain, expecting to hear his rejection of such a notion. However…

“No quarter will be asked or given from me,” said Tiresias. The two Mountain’s men laughed but they were the only ones. All the rest of the hall stared at the librarian before turning to Clegane, who nodded slowly.

Lord Lydden nodded to the maester, who scribbled out that detail in the accounting, before pushing the ink and quill forward.

“Will the two champions please make their marks?” asked Lord Lydden, stepping aside.

Tiresias stepped first, signed quickly and returned to his place. Ser Gregor stalked forward slowly and barely scratched the parchment before stepping back.

_Don’t fall for that slow act, Tiresias. You know he can move very quickly in all that._

During all this, Ser Gregor and Tiresias kept their eyes forward. Not even glancing at each other. But this was only surface. Maybe he had been riding with Tiresias for too long, but he swore the Mountain's breathing had quickened since no quarter was declared. He was getting excited.

The maester took away the document and Lord Lydden’s jaw set. There was nothing else for it now. He nodded to the Septon who came forward. Shuffling just before the two champions, the Septon lifted his head, along with a crystal sphere, looking to the ceiling, but seeing the heavens.

“In Deep Den tonight, we humbly ask the Seven to look down and bear witness on this trial by combat. To help us find truth in the soul of the accused. May the Father aid us with his judgment. May the Warrior lend his strength to the champion whose cause is just.”

Jory resisted the urge to snort. _Don’t think one of these fuckers needs any more strength._

“May the Seven be with you both.”

The Septon lowered his sphere and backed behind Lord Lydden, who sat back down in his chair, quite rigidly. He exhaled before raising his head.

“Whenever you’re ready, go to your starting positions.”

Clegane stalked back to his men who carried his sword and shield. Tiresias took a few seconds before finally turning and walking briskly back. His eyes locked on the librarian, Jory heard the Mountain drawing his greatsword from its sheath and realized that he wasn’t breathing. He drew a breath as Tiresias came back to him, his face paling.

“Jory…” he muttered. “Jory, I need your help.”

Jory glanced to see the Mountain walking to the dueling space with his shield and sword.

“What do you need?” he murmured back, hoping to the Old Gods he could fulfill Tiresias’ request.

The man met his eyes. They were bright.

“I need you to hit me.”

Jory blinked. “What?”

“Slap me across the face. Do it.”

“Tiresias…I…what?”

“Jory, listen to me.” Tiresias’ tone turned urgent. “I’m in my head right now. I feel numb. If you don’t slap me across the face right now, I will die. Do it.”

Clegane was already in his place. Whispers from the lords were beginning to reach his ears.

“Now.”

He brought his hand back and stuck Tiresias across the face. The whispers ceased.

Tiresias barely moved from the slap. “Again.”

The hit echoed in the hall.

“Harder.”

Tiresias took it again, facing Jory immediately.

“Harder, damn you. Harder!”

Jory slapped him before he finished speaking. Tiresias raised a hand, his face remaining to the side, breathing hard. The hall was silent.

Finally, after a few seconds, Tiresias turned back to face him. His cheek was red, but his eyes were calm.

He then removed the sheath from the spear, tossing it to the floor. With that, he turned, making for his spot.

Jory backed up, watching his friend walked to his doom. Tiresias twirled the spear as he settled. He didn’t handle the spear as quickly as Jory would have liked. But then again, Tiresias wasn’t a fighter who liked to show off. He hoped that spear would be flashing more swiftly in the next few minutes.

Tiresias stilled though, turning sideface, his spear pointed at Ser Gregor, who raised his shield. Their eyes remained on each other, while all other eyes in hall looked on. Lord Lydden's sigh echoed off the stone.

“Begin,” the forlorn lord stated.

The Mountain began walking forward immediately. He trudged slowly toward the center. Tiresias crept forward to meet him, eyes unblinking.

Jory’s breath began to shudder.

_No…no, Clegane’s not that slow. He’s lulling you into range, man._

He wanted to shout, warn his friend. But he knew from experience that shouting advice was often more distracting than helpful. Plus, Tiresias knew the Mountain was quicker than he seemed. What the hell was he playing at?

And why the fuck was most of the spear shaft behind him?

Gripping his fists so hard they hurt, he swallowed his voice. Tiresias was just out of range for Clegane’s greatsword. Everyone in the hall seemed to be holding their breath.

Tiresias was two steps into his range when Ser Gregor suddenly pulled back and swung.

_He’s dead. He’s fucking dead._

The greatsword sang through the air, breaking the silence and nothing else. Jory blinked. Tiresias had fallen back, using the copper end of the spear to prop him up from the ground as Clegane’s blade swept over him, missing him.

As the steel passed, Tiresias sprung up, using the spear to propel him. He was standing tall again by the time Ser Gregor had finished his swing.

The librarian then quickly twirled his spear, that the blade faced away from Ser Gregor, and brought the copper knob to Clegane’s greathelm. He rapidly struck the Mountain’s head four times before jumping back to avoid the retaliating swing from Clegane, whose howls echoed in his helm along with the taps from the spear’s end.

That swing was wild though and avoided easily. Tiresias twirled the spear back around, pointing the spearhead at Ser Gregor as he circled carefully. The Mountain had his sword up as well, but his other hand gripped his helm, his shield loose. He shook his head repeatedly, breathing harshly.

Jory’s eyes remained fixed on the Mountain. If he wasn’t so nervous, he would have smiled. He didn’t know the man had such sensitive ears. Tiresias struck well, and with that greathelm strapped on, Clegane couldn’t rub the pain away. It just rang and rang…

_Still, Tiresias…I don’t know what you’re thinking. Just getting him pissed off. You should have struck at his armpit when you had the chance._

Tiresias darted forward, thrusting the spear toward Clegane, scratching his armor. The metal screeched in the hall. The Mountain roared as he brought his sword to the spear, but Tiresias had already brought it back and thrusted it again at Ser Gregor’s arm. The blade scrapped along his right vambrace, sliding quickly under the couter, before Tiresias retracted it and retreated, sidestepping around the huge knight.

Jory hoped he didn’t imagine hearing links breaking between the couter and the vambrace. He couldn’t see if it had loosened from the last strike.

Ser Gregor kept Tiresias in his sights, turning to face him as he circled, through the eye openings in his greathelm. Jory saw the fire reflected in the Mountain’s eyes. They shone with fury. The echoes from the copper knob had passed and Ser Gregor’s sword was raised high again, ready to pay Tiresias back for the headache.

Tiresias’ eyes were bright too and his naked torso did nothing to hide his nerves. He breathed rapidly, however his grip was on his spear was firm and he stepped lightly.

Other than the two champions breathing, the hall was completely silent. Jory didn’t take eyes off the duel, but he was certain that more than one onlooker was staring, shocked by the first bout.

Clegane had enough of waiting though and charged forward, any feign of slowness dropped. Tiresias crouched and thrust the spear at his gorget. The spear scraped the surface, as Clegane raised his shield, pushing the spear upward as he swung down at Tiresias.

The librarian swung his spear back around as he dodged the sword, rolling to his side and coming to his feet again. The Mountain tried to bring the sword back to strike him, but Tiresias was already out of reach.

However, he didn’t wait for Clegane to center himself before coming forward again. Crouched low and jabbing his spear at the Mountain’s feet. Clegane might have more control with his leather boots, but he risked the exposure.

That exposure made the Mountain dance back a few steps as Tiresias advanced, bringing his spear quickly from one foot to the other. Clegane tried swinging his sword at the man, but the length of the spear allowed Tiresias to stay out of his range, dodging as he continued to jab.

Finally, Ser Gregor brought the shield down and merely swung at the spear itself. His blade dragged quickly along, bringing up sparks, but the spear was no longer biting at his boots. Both of which were punctured. Tiresias stepped back, bringing the spear up as he did. Jory saw blood on the steel…

But the Mountain pressed on, unbothered by his foot. Either the cut wasn’t too deep or Clegane was impervious to the pain. He actually seemed to have calmed and was bearing down on Tiresias, who jabbed at his armor before scurrying away from the greatsword.

They went back and forth as such for a prolonged time. Jory swore it was ten minutes of this, but he knew it couldn’t have been more than two. Tiresias jumped in and out of the Mountain’s range, adding more scratches to his armor and shield, his strikes at the joints becoming more pointed. However, Clegane wasn’t letting him settle for an easy target. More than once, Tiresias attempted to get behind him but he kept the librarian to his front, pivoting and swinging his sword at his friend.

Sweat shone on Tiresias’ torso and his arms began to shake slightly as he held the spear high. Clegane’s breath could be heard pushing past the orifices in his helm and the bleeding from his right foot was beginning to exit from his boot on to the floor.

Jory forgot to breathe again and he inhaled a shuddering breath.

_Come on, damn it, you need more than one cut…get behind him, damn you. Get behind him!_

The longer this went on, the more hopeful he became that Tiresias could actually survive…but he became more fearful as well.

Tiresias brought his spear close and yelled. More than one man jumped. It was the first noise that this strange man had made the entire fight.

Still yelling, Tiresias began to charge at the Mountain who raised his sword.

Jory couldn’t help it. “No, Tiresias! No!” he yelled.

The librarian didn’t register his plea, continuing only to rush forward as Clegane swung his sword down.

That’s when Tiresias dove and rolled, not away from the sword but toward it, hugging his spear…

The Mountain tried to correct mid-swing, bring his sword lower, but it was too late. The sword passed over the rolling librarian. Jory heard a grunt and a hiss from Tiresias as the man hit the floor and rolled to his feet, spear gripped in his left hand.

Behind Ser Gregor. At his knees.

_No, the spear’s too long. He won’t swing it around in time!_

But then he saw the other steel that Tiresias held...

Tiresias threw back his right hand, jamming the dagger into the back of Ser Gregor’s knee. An enraged scream of pain emanated from the helm and Clegane whirled back around with his sword. Tiresias barely missed it, yelling as he jumped away. The librarian backed away quickly, wiping the dagger on his pant leg before sheathing it again. The spear came back to his right hand. He raised it as he circled at a safe distance.

And a safe distance he could now maintain. Clegane made an effort, but in addition to his punctured knee, his other leg was suffering a maimed foot. The Mountain was moving as slowly as his namesake.

_That’s it, mate. That’s it. Topple him. Fucking topple him!_

Then he got a good look at his friend. Tiresias had paid for that last maneuver. A gash ran down his chest. He didn’t entirely miss the retaliating swing. By some miracle though, the injury seemed shallow. Tiresias had managed to avoid the worst, but he was still bleeding and in pain.

He still had his two feet though. As he circled, the Mountain pivoted to face him, his knees were shaking. Hisses shot from Clegane’s mouth as he moved. But the Mountain stayed in one place and he seemed content to wait.

“I dare you…” he rumbled, breaking the silence in the hall. “I dare you to try that again.”

Though Tiresias wasn’t one to be baited like that, Jory eyed his friend nervously. Clegane was injured, but he wouldn’t die without a finishing blow. From a distance, he was still quick enough to block Tiresias’ spear. Finishing Clegane meant getting closer, inside the shield. And the greatsword, which Clegane still held high.

_Finishing him…Tiresias finishing the Mountain…Gods, I’m thinking some queer thoughts…_

It was pure darkness outside now. Only the hearths and the torches gave light to this inner hall. The crackle of their flames was only accompanied by the panting of the two fighters, their duel at a standstill. All the rest stood silent. Jory didn’t glance to them. He couldn’t.

Tiresias began to stalk forward, his left hand cupping the copper end of the spear, extending the blade before him. Clegane swung his sword against the spear but Tiresias withdrew it to jab again, which Clegane met with his shield. He pushed the spear back with enough force to send Tiresias flying off balance into a pillar.

Bringing a leg up behind, the librarian managed to push off the pillar and regain his balance. His shoulders rose and fell rapidly.

_Wait to catch your breath. He can’t catch you. Just wait!_

But there was a difference between observing a fight and being in one. Jory wasn’t the one facing the Mountain and he couldn’t blame Tiresias for moving before his breath was completely back.

Shuffling quickly, Tiresias circled Clegane. The maimed giant tried to turn with Tiresias, but he couldn’t quite manage it. Tiresias was finally at his back and thrusted the spear forward. The blade entered under the fauld and the Mountain screamed in pain.

But then Jory saw Clegane straighten up and whirl his arm around.

_No…no, not just in pain. Fortifying himself..._

He saw the Mountain reach for the spear, having dropped his shield. Tiresias saw it too and tried to withdraw the spear. However when Clegane straightened, he had locked the blade under his armor, under the fauld, at extreme pain to himself, securing his enemy’s weapon.

It didn’t matter how quick Tiresias was. The spear was trapped and with his left hand, Clegane grabbed it below the blade before Tiresias could withdraw it. Jory saw the struggle on his friend’s face and knew. Even when bleeding profusely, Clegane had more strength.

So, Tiresias didn’t fight it. He gave into Clegane’s pull and pushed the spear farther in. Ser Gregor roared louder and swung his sword around, cutting the spear in half. Tiresias was sent to the ground by the release.

Clegane didn’t give him a second. Even with a spearhead in his back, a maimed foot and a punctured knee, he reached back for the shield and threw it at his opponent. Tiresias was just off the floor and was barely able to raise his leathered elbows before the shield crashed into him.

No armor meant he took the full brunt of an oaken shield. Which sent him back to the floor, hitting the stone. Jory winced, hissing at the contact. Tiresias still had the presence of mind to guard himself as he hit the floor. A shout of pain escaped him though and he was stunned on the ground, as Clegane began to amble forward.

_Could have used fucking armor for that…_

Jory clenched his teeth as the Mountain crawled closer, trailing blood behind him as he neared his friend. Tiresias saw him coming as well, but that didn’t make his battered arms work faster. He fell back to the stone once, before managing to push himself back to his feet. He breathed heavily. They both did. Jory swore he saw spit spewing from the Mountain’s helm as he exhaled.

Any pretense at honor was gone. This was no longer a duel. Just a bloody free-for-all.

Tiresias shook his arms, trying to get the feeling back, eyes on the encroaching Clegane. He still had feeling in his legs though. Ser Gregor was near enough to swing his greatsword. Tiresias dodged the blade, backing up and Clegane hit the ground with his momentum.

Stepping a few steps back, eyes still forward, Tiresias bent down and grabbed Clegane’s discarded shield. Swinging back, he threw the shield out. It crashed away from them. Ser Gregor was down to his sword. Tiresias to his dagger.

Or perhaps not. The librarian walked forward toward the knight, who was struggling to his knees. Tiresias bent down to retrieve the other half of his severed spear. Raising the copper knob above his head, he advanced cautiously.

His breath hadn’t slowed though, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Back on his knees, Clegane swung the greatsword. Tiresias ducked low, coming back up, after the sword had passed. He struck the helm twice before Clegane swung his sword back across, growling in pain. Tiresias prepared to dodge again, dropping to the floor for the sword to pass overhead.

Instead, it fell to the ground beside him. Jory blinked. The Mountain had dropped his sword, reaching for his friend.

Tiresias tried to move away, but it was too late. Clegane grabbed his left arm, gripping it tightly. The severed spear came loose, clanging to the floor with the sword. He saw Tiresias, face pained from the Mountain’s grip, reached for the dagger with his free hand. But as he drew the dagger and thrusted it towards the helm, Ser Gregor grabbed that arm as well.

_No…no, no, no._

With Tiresias trapped, Clegane released the left arm and swung down with all his fury on his friend’s right arm. He heard the crack echo in the chamber. 

An unhinged shriek came from Tiresias and Jory’s heart stilled.

_No! No! Please gods, no!_

Clegane gripped the librarian’s forearm, which bent unnaturally. Tiresias’ screams of pain echoed around the room, but were stifled when Ser Gregor gripped his throat and pulled him close.

Jory forced himself to look. He promised himself he’d see this through, see Tiresias’ last moments. With his quivering legs, his face turning blue and his broken arm which Clegane still grasped. Time slowed as Jory focused on the arm, against his wishes, wrapped by Clegane’s giant fist, up to the librarian’s own hand, rigid, still holding the…

Jory blinked. Where was the dagger? Did he drop it? Where—?

His eyes found it before he registered it in his mind. Tiresias’ left arm now hung free, the dagger held along the forearm.

Still gasping for air, Tiresias flipped the dagger upward and thrusted it up into the Mountain's helm.

The librarian dropped, his gasps morphing back to wheezing, pained screams. Clegane managed to bring his hands halfway to his helm, to the lodged blade upwards in his eye, before halting. He knelt there frozen for several heartbeats. No one in the room breathed, save for his maimed opponent.

Ser Gregor fell forward, the clash of his armor echoing throughout the room. Tiresias managed to get to his knees and turned to see his opponent lying on the floor, blooding pooling from his head. He began to shudder violently as he rubbed his throat. However that seemed to pain him as well. Tiresias moaned and cradled his bent arm as best he could, his breath coming in rasps

_Go! Go, damn you. He needs help! Go!_

But Jory couldn’t move and neither could anyone else in the room. All eyes were frozen on the unmoving giant that laid before them…

However, those eyes began to move to the Septon. It took Lord Lydden glancing to him for the old man to clear his throat.

“The Seven have made their judgment known,” he called across the hall. “Ser Gregor Clegane is guilty of his charge.”

Jory moved as quickly as he could. He came to his knees before Tiresias. Tears were streaming down the man’s face.

“He’s dead, aye?” He coughed, wincing as he did. “Jory, he’s dead. Fucking dead, right?” His teeth were beginning to chatter.

“Aye, mate, aye” Jory muttered quickly. He glanced over to Clegane’s still corpse. “He’s dead. You did it. He’s dead.”

“It hurts, Jory,” Tiresias moaned. “Oh god, it fucking hurts.”

Jory stood. “Maester! We need a maester here!”

The maester rushed from Lord Lydden’s side. Jory had to give some props to the old man. Everyone else in the room still looked shocked.

The maester unstrapped the leathers from the elbow and took Tiresias’s broken arm as gently as he could. However, the librarian still flinched, moaning in pain.

“We need to get him to my quarters,” said the maester. “Right now.”

It took a few minutes to get Tiresias up on his feet. Jory gripped his left shoulder, taking care not to jostle his right side. They stalked from the hall slowly. The maester recruited a few soldiers to accompany them.

When they reached the corridor, Jory saw Gendry, staring at them, his face pale. He motioned for the lad to follow. Gendry swallowed whatever questions he had and trailed behind them. Nobody said anything.

They came to the maester’s quarters, full of books, vials and many lit candles. The maester gestured the guards to the long table.

“Clear all that and bring it next to the fire.”

Once that was set, Jory led Tiresias to the bare table and helped him lay down. The maester returned with a vial and a dropper.

“Open wide, Tiresias. If you would.”

Tiresias didn’t hesitate, opening his mouth as wide as he could, his breaths coming in shudders and gasps. Swallowing the drops caused him to wince. The maester closed the vial and turned to the house guards.

“Take off your armor. All of it.”

All three of them looked to each other before coming back to the maester, who sighed exasperatedly.

“What I need you to do will be much easier without those plates. Now, take them off, damn it.”

As the guards began to drop their armor to the floor, the maester turned back to the table. Tiresias’ breath was beginning to calm slightly, though the pain still remained. Jory had given his hand to Tiresias’ left and he was gripping it very tightly.

“What did you give him?”

“Milk of the Poppy,” the maester replied. He reached for the broken arm and extended it gently. Tiresias still hissed, but he surrendered his limb. Jory patted his shoulder and turned to the maester.

“Your name, maester?”

“Seamas,” the man responded, not taking his eyes off the arm. He laid his fingers as gently as he could along the length of Tiresias’ forearm. Rasped moans and gritted teeth accompanied every touch. It was several minutes before Maester Seamas looked up.

“The bone’s not shattered. It’s a complete break.” He let out a breath. “Your friend is lucky. Were it in several pieces, I don’t know how I could set it, but…”

He crossed to the desk and poured a cup of water, taking a decent draught before filling it again.

“With a complete break, I have more indication…more guidance to set it. If I get it right, I’ll know. He will too.”

He crossed back to the table and lifted the cup to Tiresias’ lips. The librarian drank greedily and groaned as he did so, tears still running down his cheeks. It must hurt him to swallow. Jory stared. He’d only ever seen this in the Iron Islands.

“I think he’s going into shock, Maester.”

“Yes, that’s common,” said Seamas, going back to his desk. “The Milk of the Poppy will help, but this is a great pain.”

“Setting it…setting it will be worse…”

All eyes turned to the table. Tiresias has gasped out that last sentence, before going back to shudders. Seamas approached the table, with straps in his hand, but he had forgotten them.

“Have you broken a bone before?” he asked the supine librarian.

Tiresias nodded through his tears. The maester sighed.

“Well then, you know what I need to do. You want to wait for the full effect of the Milk of the Poppy, however…” He gestured to the arm. “You can see it’s already beginning to swell. I cannot wait too long, otherwise I won’t be able to properly set it.”

The librarian breathed in and out, his chest heaving. “How long?” he wheezed.

The maester looked to his arm and back. “Five minutes. That’s as long as I’d risk.”

Tiresias nodded jerkily. “All right, all right, all right…”

Seamas turned to the soldiers who had all removed their armor.

“Men, I need you to hold him.”

Ever since they had left the inner hall, the soldiers hadn’t stopped staring at Tiresias. Despite this, they came to the table where Seamas handed them the straps.

“They won’t hold everything, but they will help.”

They reached under the table and strapped the quivering librarian’s feet, his hips and his chest, reaching gently under the broken arm to do so. Tiresias’ breath calmed slightly in these few moments. However, Jory saw the pain in his face and knew it wouldn’t be enough.

The five moments were gone by now and the maester returned with a leathered piece of wood. He placed it in Tiresias’ mouth who took it as willingly as he did the Milk of the Poppy.

Seamas rolled up his sleeves, tying them.

“All right. Marcus, take his knees. Holt, his hips. Nestor, his shoulders. He doesn’t move, you understand?”

The men all nodded and took their positions, placing their hands on Tiresias. Seamas turned to Jory.

“Continue to hold his hand. Just be careful he doesn’t break it.” He glanced at Gendry. “You, boy. You wish to help?”

Gendry jumped but nodded. Seamas beckoned him over.

“I need you…” he said, guiding Gendry’s hands to Tiresias’ elbow. “To hold this still. You look strong. Can you hold it still?”

“Aye,” said Gendry, swallowing and nodding fiercely. “Aye, I can.” The lad planted his feet and gripped the elbow. A low moan escaped from Tiresias. Seamas turned to the librarian.

“It’s time. I can’t put it off it any longer.” He placed a comforting hand on the Tiresias' shoulder. “If you’ve truly had a broken bone mended before, then you know how sorry I am for what I’m about to do.”

Tiresias nodded his head viciously, before setting his head down, staring at the ceiling with bright, streaming eyes. Jory looked back to Seamas, who nodded grimly.

“Good, you know not to look.” He looked to them all. “Hold him.”

The men tightened their grips, laying all their weight on Tiresias. Seamas bent over the arm and clutched it. Tiresias gave a soft scream.

“On the count of three,” Seamas muttered, his eyes boring on the arm. “One, two, three.”

He pulled the arm and Tiresias’ soft scream turned high, piercing through the mouthguard. As much as it hurt to scream, it certainly didn’t stop him. Jory’s hand was crushed under Tiresias’ vice grip, but all the rest of the men stayed motionless, keeping the librarian’s body still. Jory couldn’t bring himself to look at the maester working, but finally Seamas stood up.

Jory looked over and saw that the arm was straightened. However…it still didn’t look quite right to him. Evidently the maester thought so as well, a frown coming over his face.

He glanced over to see Gendry staring at him. The lad’s face was shining with sweat, but his blues eyes were quite determined.

Seamas leaned over to Tiresias. “I need to try again.”

Tiresias moaned, fresh tears streaming down his face.

“I know, I know,” Seamas said. “It’s almost there. You’ll feel it when it sets right but it’s not there yet and I need to try again.”

Tiresias nodded frantically and Seamas didn’t wait for him to change his mind.

“Hold him.” The men resumed their grips and Jory gave Tiresias his left hand. His right one deserved a break.

“One, two, three.”

Jory kept his eyes on Tiresias. The man screamed again against the mouthguard. His body convulsed under the straps and the men and his eyes kept streaming.

“That’s all right,” Jory whispered. “Just scream. It’s all right. It’s almost there. Just keep screaming.”

Tiresias gasped loudly and Jory looked frantically to the maester to see the damage…but Seamas’ expression was calm. He followed the expression to the arm…which looked normal. Swollen, but right…

He turned back to Tiresias, who was breathing deeply and rapidly. Tears still flowed and he still wheezed, but his eyes shone with relief. Seamas reached over and removed the mouthguard, gesturing to the men.

The house guards straightened up and left Tiresias breathing deeply on the table. Maester Seamas wiped his brow.

“That’s as good as I can do…thank you, men. You may leave now.”

Jory barely registered the metal clinks and clunks as the house guards gathered their armor off the floor. Tiresias hadn’t let go off of his hand yet.

_That’s all right. You hold it as long as you need it…you stupid, lucky bastard._

Maester Seamas came over with another cup of water. Tiresias drank it all.

“I’ll need to set a splint. The brace I usually have is in use. So please, wait here and I’ll be back with another. Keep that arm still. I also need to see to your gash. And your throat.”

The maester exited, leaving Jory alone with Gendry and the supine idiot. Gendry met his eyes.

“I gotta piss,” he muttered before leaving to find a privy.

The room was hardly quiet, between Tiresias’ relieved, wheezed panting and the crackle of the fire. Jory sat on the table and sighed, the tension of the entire day slithering out of his feet.

Tiresias began to laugh softly.

“What?” Jory mumbled. He was too tired to even look at the man.

“It was the first one,” rasped Tiresias, swallowing his spit and wincing. “I wondered…I wondered which one I’d see here…”

That made Jory turn. Tears continued to flow slowly from the librarian, but he was smiling, looking to the ceiling, seeing something that wasn’t there.

“What do you mean?” asked Jory softly.

Tiresias’s breath slowed as he relaxed. “Which mountain I’d see. He had three faces…it was the first one.”

His voice was so soft, Jory strained to hear it. Even then, it didn’t make sense. He shook his head.

“There’s only one Mountain, Tiresias…and you got him.” A grin spread across his face as he lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s dead. You fucking got him.”

“Aye…aye…” Tiresias panted, as his eyes fluttered shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, readers! That was fun!
> 
> I took inspiration from two of my favorite fight scenes; the brawl between Dan Dority and Captain Turner in Deadwood and the final duel in Rob Roy. Not to say I copied everything, but they were in my mind when I wrote this.
> 
> Anyway, I'll see you next Tuesday! Have a good week. Stay safe. Make sure you're registered to vote and look into voting early.


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

Tiresias opened the door and sauntered slowly into the dawn. The sun was beginning to shine from the east and it blinded him slightly. It was worth it though. The only cool breeze in the day occurred before the sun came up. It helped the nausea.

He sat down on the bench and sighed, doing his best not to jostle his arm. Ten days had passed since the duel. Last night was the first time that he could finally swallow food without any pain. As for the arm, it brought back agony which, even before he came to Westeros, he had done his best to forget. The first few nights were horrible…

But they could have been a lot worse. After the maester made a splint for his arm and tended to the shallow gash on his chest, he came to another potentially stupid decision: he had to leave Deep Den.

_So mere hours after felling the Mountain, Tiresias ambled out of the castle fort into the night, with Gendry, Jory and a vial of Milk of the Poppy. He threw down more coin for that precious relief than he was comfortable with. But he remembered the pain from Clark’s childhood and he was determined to stay ahead of it._

_They reached the Goldroad, leading their steeds by the reins–Jory held his horse–but which way to go? Further west was a road north to Hornvale. Which sounded good to him. Beyond Hornvale, the road would lead to the Golden Tooth on the Riverroad. From there they could travel to the Kingsroad and head north._

_Tiresias tried to suggest this, suppressing the urge to vomit and ended up coughing and rasping. He could feel the eyes of Gendry and Jory on his back, their incredulity. He could barely walk a thousand yards without feeling nauseous. He certainly was in no condition to trek north just yet._

_Just as he was resolving to camp with a fractured limb, he heard steps coming from Deep Den, hurrying towards them._

_“Sers! Sers!”_

_Their party turned to see Henri the innkeeper, coming down to the Goldroad. His purse was heavier than before. Tiresias heard the coins clinking together. Lord Lydden must have forced the Mountain’s men to pay up._

_Henri halted before them, trying not to pant._

_“I’ve heard…” he wheezed before swallowing and starting again. “I’ve heard…and see that you’ve declined the hospitality of Deep Den.”_

_Tiresias was too tired to speak. He nodded instead._

_“Aye,” said Jory. “We…” He glanced to Tiresias. “We thought it best.”_

_Henri turned to Tiresias, the obvious question in his eyes. _

_He finally found his strength to answer. “Didn’t feel right,” he rasped. “Killing a man. Sleeping in the same place.”_

_All right, it wasn’t an adequate answer. The Milk of the Poppy was coming in strong though and he was beginning to nod his head. _

_“Well,” Henri said, deciding to move on. “There be another place nearby. Was a murder there, but t’weren’t yours.”_

_A shadow of the deranged man who demanded justice early this morning was present on Henri’s face. However, the man swallowed and continued._

_“A room with four beds sits in my inn. Empty now and it’d be yours. If you want. However long you need. That arm…along with the rest of you…looks in need of a good rest.”_

_He brought his eyes to the rest of the group. “What say you?”_

And so for the past ten days, Tiresias, Jory and Gendry found themselves hosted at the Goldroad inn. The first night, Tiresias remembered to elevate his arm, resting it upon the pillow from the fourth bed.

He woke up twice due to the pain. It wasn’t just the arm. The gash on his chest was hot under the bandage. His throat still ached. Despite his efforts to reach the vial quietly, Jory heard him fumbling and got up to assist him. Thankfully he only needed it the first night.

He slept off and on for two days. On the third morning, with the help of Jory, he managed to bathe without getting his splint wet, trying not to wince as he moved his arm. Thankfully the gash was healed enough not to require a bandage.

His chest didn’t hurt anymore too. Maybe that was due to the deep fucking ache that pulsed from his arm. But as tempted as he was to drink the whole vial, the Milk of the Poppy was like any other painkiller. It wouldn’t do to become addicted to it. So he moderated his doses and pushed the ache down as far as he could, breathing deeply through his nose.

What did Clark with his broken arm to distract from the pain? Television? He couldn’t remember what a television even looked like any more. School? Books? No books here. The tomes from the Red Keep’s library were headed to Winterfell. Maybe they had already arrived.

With his arm, he couldn’t even help out around the inn. Despite Henri’s initial objections, Gendry and Jory began to help out around the establishment. Heavy-lifting and such. No one said it, but they mostly took the work of the dead son. As for the daughter, she was recovering from her own injuries, secluded to the innkeeper’s quarters. They hadn’t seen her yet.

So Tiresias was left alone with his pain during the day, except for meals. Not that he didn’t prefer it. Jory, Gendry, the innkeeper…they couldn’t do anything. Only time would heal it. Maester Seamas said two months…

He tried not to bemoan the wait. He was alive. Resting for two months was a slight price.

Christ, he was actually alive…

After the first sennight, when his arm didn’t feel like it was on fire, he began to take short walks in the woods. It’s why he was out here this morning. Earlier and earlier to catch the coolness coming from the mountains. The summer here was more apparent. The hot sun in the afternoon made his arm itch.

He discovered a calm nook in the nearby stream, shaded. It took a little effort with one hand, but he managed to take off his boots and soak his feet. He sat there every morning for a solid time, listening to the forest, trying not to think. It was easier than he thought.

Maybe it was the pain, the seclusion or the idyllic mountain scenery, but he often forgot that Ser Gregor Clegane was now dead.

_And I killed him, didn’t I? I saw him fall. Felt his blood. Put a dagger in his brain…_

A part of him didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t know why, but when he returned to the inn every afternoon, he knew it to be true.

Jory and Gendry made an admirable effort not to treat him differently. They made conversation, cut his meat and tended to his horse. However, their eyes lingered on him longer than usual, their words a bit more clipped…something had changed.

Thankfully this behavior abated rather quickly. Over the past sennight, they seemed to relax and it was as though they were merely traveling again. Just a group of three held up at an idyllic mountain inn.

That didn’t stop others though. The retinue of Westerland knights may have passed on, but the inn still had customers and before long, the gossip had reached the whole area around Deep Den. Silent stares followed him as he entered the tavern for dinner. The silence turned into whispers. Surprisingly Tiresias found it easy to ignore them. He focused on his meal, talked with Jory and Gendry and eventually the partially-full tavern would buzz with its own chatter.

Still, the stares and murmurs persisted. Jory and Gendry didn’t have his ears and they still heard it. The previous evening, when Gendry went up to sleep, Jory and Tiresias went outside with their ales. Well, Jory had ale. Tiresias sipped water. And they were silent, listening to the evening.

Finally he couldn’t help it. He didn’t look to Jory when he spoke.

“I’ve made life much more complicated for myself, haven’t I, Jory?”

Jory waved his hand. “Nahhh…well, maybe. It’s all right. We’ll…look, we’ll get back to Winterfell. And this all will…”

His words faded and he took a covering draught. Tiresias smiled unwillingly. The man was a good sport. To be fair, he didn’t have anything to add either. He didn’t mind the silence.

Silence was present this morning as well as he hiked to his nook. Thankfully it wasn’t far. He could smell the stream from the inn, but most travelers didn’t venture into the forest. They only trotted back to the Goldroad.

_Most of them aren’t up at dawn either._

The strong rays of the summer sun were tempered by the tree cover. And once he came to the water, he could ignore the heat entirely. After removing his boots, he waded carefully into the stream, before sitting back on the bank. The current wasn’t strong enough to keel him over, but he didn’t want to risk falling and hurting his arm again.

He leaned against a rock and finally allowed himself to relax, feeling the water run over his feet. The ache in his arm lessened. He ran a finger over his shirt along the scab on his chest. It would make a good scar one day.

Birdsong and running water lulled him and he couldn’t think. Couldn’t plan. He tried to for a few days. Tried to figure out his next move, the repercussions of his actions. How best to react.

And every time he did, he found himself simply staring at the running stream. Not a single coherent thought took hold in his brain.

_Maybe I’m just tired. How long has it been since I walked out of Winterfell to kill Ramsay? Telling myself I’ll go home when it’s done. Telling myself that whenever I think something new to do…_

Perhaps deep down, he knew that rest and relaxation were luxuries he could hardly afford. But there weren’t luxuries. He needed to rest. To heal. Otherwise, he would break before the first White Walker came to the Wall, before the first dragon flew to Westeros…

He laughed bemusedly. _Well, I’m already broken…_

A splash interrupted his meditation. He opened his eyes, turning to see a young girl with blonde hair and bruises that were near completely faded. She was staring at him.

Tiresias nodded. “Hello Layna.”

He remained seated. The girl looked petrified and it wouldn’t serve to get up and come closer. Accepting that the girl was in no mood for pleasantries, he looked around the bed and came back to her.

“Did I steal your secret spot?”

She didn’t answer that question either. In fact, her only response was to turn and scamper away into the trees, back to the inn. Tiresias resisted the urge to call after her, to placate her…

_There’s nothing you can do or say. She was still raped. Her brother’s still dead. She still has to process it. Thirteen years old…_

He noticed his left hand was shaking and clenched his fist to stop it.

_What? Were you expecting a thank you? Gratitude? Tears of joy, smiles and eyes full of adulation for her savior?_

_Grow the fuck up._

He closed his eyes again, sighing.

_Besides you’re no savior. Rosie’s proof enough of that. Buried and lost with her monster. One of them anyway…_

Reaching into his pocket, he took out the vial. Something stilled his hand though, as taking a painkiller in the middle of a self-loathing rant wasn’t the smartest move. He knew that. In school, Clark refused to drink while he was sad…refused to encourage those thoughts.

However, right now…the ache was returning in force. He placed a drop in his mouth and felt his world glaze over. The water ran cool over his feet. He wondered if Rosie, as deep as she was, could still feel the rain seeping through the dirt.

* * *

A few days later, Jory and Henri were rolling empty ale barrels outside and setting them along the wall. Tiresias sat on the bench, facing the trees as usual, listening to them rustle in the wind.

“How fares the arm?”

He turned to see Henri facing him. Jory had already returned inside.

“It fares,” Tiresias replied. “Should be ready for light travel in a fortnight. Perhaps less.”

Henri waved that off. “Your room is yours as long as you need. Your friends as well.”

He made to go back inside.

“Henri,” Tiresias called, pausing the innkeeper in his doorway. “May I speak to you please?”

Henri thought for a quick second, before nodding and stepping forward. Knowing his schedule was busy, Tiresias didn’t hesitate.

“I think you should leave the Westerlands.”

The innkeeper blinked at him. “What?”

“Leave the Westerlands. You and Layna. Sell the inn. Travel to a different kingdom and start over. If you can.”

It was a thought that he had for the past sennight. Henri didn’t turn red or raise his voice as Tiresias spoke. He settled into himself, complete surety accompanying his words.

“This inn has been my family’s business for years. Going back before the conquest. I’ve been here my whole life, Tiresias. I will be here my whole life.”

“That might not be very long if you stay here,” said Tiresias, meeting his determined eyes.

“What do you mean?” said Henri. “The ones who came and…they reside hundreds of miles west of here. Lord Lydden sent them on their way. They’ll not ride back here.”

“Henri, how do you think Lord Tywin will react to Ser Gregor’s death?”

It took a moment of silence before the innkeeper could respond.

“There was nothing illegal about that death,” he said firmly. “That trial; it was requested by…by him. It was blessed by the Septon. Preceded over by Lord Lydden.”

“And you believe Lord Tywin will accept that?” Tiresias asked softly. “No, I’m damn sure Lord Lydden will face some backlash for it. I’m certain that Polliver and the rest of the Mountain’s men will. Why do you think you won’t? I killed Lord Tywin’s beast in your name.”

His arm pinged and he winced at the pain. Henri came forward but Tiresias raised his other hand, stilling him. He breathed until the pain pulsed slighter and slighter.

“If you stay here,” he continued, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “I wouldn’t be surprised if, within a few months’ time, you’ll wake up to your inn burning to the ground. Sell it all now. Take your daughter and go to another kingdom. South to the Reach. East to the Stormlands. Wherever, just…”

Trailing off, he brought his hand to his throat. The pain wasn’t entirely gone and it returned whenever he talked too much. Maybe that’s why he had craved silence in the past fortnight.

A cup of clear water appeared before him, offered by Henri. He drank gingerly, handing the empty cup back.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Henri didn’t respond for a bit. Finally he sighed.

“If I sell…there’s no getting enough coin to set up elsewhere. Layna and I…we’ll be beggars, mere servers and cooks, getting pittance. We wouldn’t have anything. Her children and their children wouldn’t have anything. It’ll take generations for my family to have anything of their own again.”

“At least, you’ll have a family.” Tiresias met his eyes. “I can’t fight for you again. Even if my arm was healed.”

He tried to say that gently. However Henri didn’t look offended.

“I wouldn’t ask you to. Gods, I didn’t ask you the first time. I thank you for your concern. I thank you again because I’ll never be able to thank you enough in this life for standing for me…but I’m staying. Layna’s staying.”

Henri turned back to the inn.

“You should leave for Layna’s sake,” said Tiresias. “She’s a whore now, you know. That’s what the records show. I killed Clegane on charges of theft of service, not rape. Not murder. To all concerned, Layna took the coin and Simos attacked the men for no reason.”

Henri froze at the door. He didn’t turn back. Tiresias swung his leg around, straddling the bench. “She has to live with that now. If she stays. But in another kingdom…she wouldn’t have to and she wouldn't have to enter that tavern room again either. Wouldn’t have to see where she was taken. Where her brother was killed. She just…she’ll never have to see it again.”

The trees’ rustle was the only sound for a good while. Tiresias wondered if he went too far. Whether he, Jory and Gendry would be thrown out. He waited for the outburst, but Henri didn’t show any anger. When the innkeeper finally turned, his eyes were downcast, his voice soft.

“She’s not the only one,” Henri murmured. “I see Simos. I see her as well. Whenever I serve anyone in that hall, I see them both. And I can still hear them…hear them laughing over her screams…”

He turned to Tiresias, meeting his eyes. He didn’t seem angry, just weary.

“But still I serve. It’s what I do. It’s my lot. Hers as well.”

And with that, Henri entered the inn, leaving Tiresias alone with the rustling trees. He ran a hand over his buzzed head. The hair was coming back in.

_Maybe you should take your own advice, man. This is a lovely inn, but you should leave the Westerlands soon._

He eyed his splint. Travel was still not a smart choice at this point. Maybe a sennight more and he could handle the jostle of the horses. He’d talk to Jory and Gendry tonight.

* * *

His companions took to the idea. They expressed concern over his ability to travel, but ultimately they came around. They were patient and hardworking, but even so, working chores around an inn for more than a fortnight was taxing. In addition to caring for an invalid.

They informed Henri of their decision. The innkeeper wished them well and made no mention of his previous conversation with Tiresias. It was as if it never happened.

Maybe he preferred it that way. Tiresias didn’t relish the idea of spending his final sennight at this idyllic hideaway with a seething host. They prepared for the long ride back to Winterfell, which involved fixing the saddles for more provisions.

Gendry sat on the bench around the back, sewing hooks into the saddles, to hang more sacks. It was more complicated than it seemed. The weight around the saddles had to be spaced and distributed evenly, else the horse would soon become uncomfortable.

Not that Tiresias was much in charge of it. He held a loose bit every now and then with his good arm to assist, but he was as useless as he ever was.

More so than Jory, Gendry looked at him differently ever since Deep Den. Which didn’t surprise him. He’d only known the lad briefly and he was young. Still, it seemed that he was finally working up to his question.

Sure enough, Gendry swallowed. “How’d you beat him?” he asked, his hands still working, his eyes still down.

For a brief second, Tiresias was tempted to be a smartass and ask Gendry to clarify. However he didn’t feel like playing that game.

He sighed. “Danced around him. Poked him enough. He grabbed me. Brought me close and I put a dagger in his eye.”

Silence followed his words for a while. Probably a more brief recounting than Gendry expected, but the lad moved on.

“You’re a librarian, aye? You read and write?”

“That’s not quite all I do, but…yes, I read and write.”

“So where’d you find time to fight?”

Tiresias shrugged. “In the evenings. The practice yard. Have a soldier friend who spars with me. Taught me which end goes where.” The hook secured, he removed his finger, looking to Gendry. “Do you fight?”

The lad shook his head. “Nah, just make the weapons.”

“Don’t you want to learn? I’m sure you could wield a sword. Though, honestly…I see you swinging a war hammer. You’re certainly strong enough.”

Gendry paused, before shrugging and continuing to set the hook. “I like hammering. But no lord will let me hammer anything outside the forge.”

Tiresias shrugged himself. “Maybe when we get back to Winterfell, Jory and I can speak to Lord Stark. Jory’s well respected in the guard. Feel like if you want to learn to fight, you could do so.”

Gendry didn’t respond to that. Not needed at the moment, Tiresias turned back to the trees. His ears tuned to the wind that came from the west. He wondered from how far away he could smell the Sunset Sea if he rode that direction. There was a deer stalking with her doe about five hundred yards away. Birds were beginning to sing again…

But this singing…it sounded different. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. It sounded like a warning…

“Blacksmiths don’t get to fight,” said Gendry. “I don’t think Master Mott knows how to fight, and he makes better weapons than the rest. I think if I…”

“Gendry, be quiet.”

The lad lowered the saddle. “What? I’m just saying if I…”

“Gendry, I’m serious. Be quiet. Do you hear that?”

Having heard the signaling from the birds before he actually heard what was bothering them, he got up from the bench and crossed to the corner of the inn. From here, he could see the Goldroad and hear a low thundering of hooves coming from the west…

He heard Gendry come to his side, but he kept his eyes on the road.

The hooves were now near enough to be heard by everyone else. He felt Gendry’s eyes turn to him.

“It’s just travelers, Tiresias.”

Said travelers finally came into view through the trees. At least twenty men. With red and gold banners. Tiresias made out the gold lion before any of the faces.

Tiresias grabbed Gendry with his good arm and ushered him back around the corner, out of sight from the road. He heard the hooves beginning to slow down.

“What?” Gendry asked, his eyes wide.

“Lannister soldiers,” Tiresias muttered. He spun the boy around, looking him dead in the eye. “Listen to me, Gendry. Until they’ve passed, you and Jory are strangers to me. Understand?”

If Gendry had any questions, he put them down. The soldiers were coming to the front of the inn. He heard only a select few dismounting.

“Where is Jory anyway?” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “Is he still in the room?”

“I think so…”

“Go to him. Tell him not to come down. I’ll come up when I can. Go now.”

He blessed the lad for being quick on the uptake. Gendry’s brow furrowed deeper, but he walked quickly to the back door and disappeared through it.

Tiresias positioned himself on the corner, peering around. The horses were breathing heavily. A few whipped their reins as they shook their heads. And thick footsteps thudded the wooden planks as the select few soldiers ascended the stairs to the inn.

He took a deep breath and turned the corner, ambling as casually as he could along the side. More and more soldiers came into view until he reached the front of the inn and the whole patrol was present. Twenty soldiers, armed and armored, mounted on their destriers…he thought. Years in this world and he still couldn’t properly name horses.

Resisting the urge to scratch under his splint, he met the eyes of a few soldiers who looked his way. He nodded politely and turned to the opened door, where the backs of two soldiers framed who could only be the commander. Tiresias paused a safe distance before the door.

The commander seemed to be in the middle of an announcement.

“…ask for your full cooperation. I repeat, we seek the warrior named Tiresias. We’ve received word that he has stayed here for a time. If he’s still here, we demand that he identify himself. If he’s traveled on, we demand all assistance in pointing us in his direction.”

Not wanting anyone to rat him out, Tiresias stepped forward, well aware of the eyes of the other soldiers.

“Excuse me…commander?” he called lightly.

The soldiers in the door frame turned, including the commander, helmet in hand, revealing dark blonde hair and a well-worn scar along his cheek. He seemed to be no more than thirty.

“Aye, stranger?” said the commander.

“Whom did you say you were looking for? I’m afraid I didn’t hear…”

“Tiresias,” stated the commander quickly, cutting off his sentence. “A warrior, not of the Westerlands. We hope to locate him.”

_Well, at least he pronounced it correctly._

He scratched his head. “Well, I’m not sure about the warrior part. My name is Tiresias though.”

Twenty pairs of eyes seemed to bore holes into his back, over his sides where he should have a weapon but didn’t. The dagger was upstairs in his room. He kept his gaze forward, as nonchalant as he could possibly could. The commander met his gaze, his expression morphing slowly into incredulity as he stepped forward.

“You are Tiresias?”

“Aye.”

“You’re the one who slew Ser Gregor Clegane in a trial-by-combat at Deep Den?”

The man said it professionally enough, but Tiresias could hear the bewilderment in his tone.

“The big fella? Aye, broke my fuckin’ arm ‘fore he went.” He gestured to his splint. “That was more than a fortnight ago. Fought for the innkeeper here, Henri.”

As if on cue, Henri appeared at the doorway, rubbing his hands with a cloth.

“May I be of some assistance to ye, gentlemen?” he said.

The commander turned to him. “Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”

Henri blinked. “I run this inn here, aye…”

“You were present at the trial-by-combat at Deep Den, where Ser Gregor fell?”

Though his eyes hardened at the name, Henri managed to nod. The commander gestured to Tiresias.

“Is this the man who slew him?”

The innkeeper glanced to him before nodding. “Aye. He fought in me name.”

For a few seconds, there was naught but birdsong in the air. Tiresias tried to wait it out, but the commander seemed a little unable to process what he had just heard. It made for quite a silence. And though Tiresias had been enjoying those these past few sennights, he wanted to break this one up. He didn’t trust silent soldiers, just staring at him.

“May I have your name, commander?” he said. “You already have mine.”

That snapped the commander out of his head and he cleared his throat. “Captain Artos Lantell, from Casterly Rock. I have a direct order from Lord Tywin Lannister to find you and escort you to the Rock. Our Lord requests your presence.”

Tiresias glanced back to the soldiers surrounding the inn. They seemed torn between bewilderment and wariness upon meeting the slight, injured man who downed Ser Gregor. A light laugh escaped him as he turned back to the Captain.

“Requests, aye?” He was left smiling without finding anything particularly funny. “His word or yours?”

Artos didn’t answer him, leaving Tiresias only to shrug.

“Not sure he needed you all. Could have just sent a messenger out. Would have traveled quicker without you lot.”

“Our Lord is concerned for your protection,” the Captain answered immediately. This man cared not for airy suggestions. “We’re here to escort you.”

_Whether you like it or not_ was the part left unsaid. Tiresias sighed quietly. His ego wasn’t raised by his defeat of Ser Gregor. Even with a healed arm, there was no victory against twenty plus men all at once. Without a weapon no less.

Anyway, he’d caused enough trouble in this part of the country. Best to ride the rest out as quietly as possible. Try and leave in one piece.

He plastered on a smile.

“Well, gentlemen. If Lord Tywin is so sweet that he sends you out to fetch me, I suppose it’s only fair that I ride with you.”

Captain Artos nodded, walking down the stairs to his level. “We have a mount for you, should you need one.”

Tiresias shook his head. “No need, Captain, no need. I’ve my own horse. She’s been resting as I have these last few sennights. Unfortunately, this damn arm is quite limiting. If one of your men would be so good as to saddle her…”

Artos instructed two of his men to head to the stables and retrieve his horse. After giving the two men the description of the animal, Tiresias turned back to the Captain.

“I need to fetch my things, Captain. And I need a little time to pack. I’m afraid I wasn’t prepared to leave today.”

“Of course,” said Artos nodding. “One of my men will come and assist you.”

“No need, Captain,” Tiresias declined with a smile. “It won’t take long. I’ll be down before your men return with my horse.”

He walked past the Captain before he could protest and entered the inn, hoping Artos didn’t take offense or suspicion at the rejection.

_Whatever. He’ll have more opportunity to boss me around during the ride to Casterly Rock._

It was easy for Tiresias to maintain a casual step as he proceeded up the stairs and to his room. His arm was sore if he jostled it too much.

The door to the room stood ajar and Jory looked ready to kick it open. Tiresias raised a single finger to his lips, pleading for silence. Jory nodded jerkily and moved for Tiresias as he entered the room. Gendry was there as well.

Jory shut the door. Not as calmly as Tiresias would have hoped.

“What the hell is going on?” he whispered.

Tiresias crossed to his rucksack and placed it on the bed. “I’m going to Casterly Rock. On Lord Tywin’s orders.”

“What?”

“Well, strictly, it’s an invitation.” Tiresias opened the rucksack and dug for the bottom. “However, those twenty odd soldiers down there are quite determined for me to accompany them.”

Jory came up to him. “We can get away. If we just…”

“No, Jory,” Tiresias interrupted. He had very limited time alone. “We can’t. Listen to me.”

He pulled out the letter that he written for Lord Stark before the trial-by-combat. With the painful excitement after the trial, he had forgotten to destroy it. It was still sealed and still quite relevant. He also retrieved the small wrapped package that he had carried since King’s Landing.

As he pulled out the package, his fingers brushed another suspicious object at the bottom. Managing to get a good grip, he pulled out the small-mouthed jar containing the remains of the Resting Wisp. He had almost completely forgot he carried it…

Tiresias threw it onto the bed.

_Best not get caught with that in the Rock._

With all these items out, he began to repack as quickly as he could. Without saying a word, Gendry came over and began to help, folding and rolling his spare shirt and cloak. Tiresias sighed in relief.

“Thank you, Gendry.” He turned back to Jory.

“I need you to escort Gendry to Winterfell.” He tapped the package and the letter. “Deliver these two items to Lord Stark as well. Put the jar in the desk in my room. Be careful with it. After I leave, wait a couple of hours and then head west. Go to Maester Seamas at Deep Den and send a raven to Winterfell. Tell Lord Stark I’ve accepted an invitation to Casterly Rock. I’ve not been coerced. That’s very important. You understand?”

“No, no…” Jory said. “I swore a vow. I said I would escort you to Winterfell…”

“You won’t be able to escort me if you’re dead,” Tiresias cut across him again. “Right now, if I ride off, I stand some chance to get back.”

He picked up his belt with his sheathed dagger. “Help me put this on.”

Despite his protestations, Jory jumped to action quickly. He latched the belt around Tiresias, muttering to himself as he did so.

“It’s not right,” he said. “He has no right. It was a trial-by-combat. Sanctioned by the Seven. Preceded over by a lord in his hall. With highborn witnesses. You should face no repercussions for killing Ser Gregor.”

He finished latching the belt, having the good sense to place the sheath on Tiresias’ right side, for his left hand. Tiresias tested it, drawing the dagger out.

“I’ve heard many things about Tywin Lannister.”

_Seen them as well._

He sheathed the dagger again. “I don’t believe he has any qualms about undermining the Seven. He has ordered me to be brought to Casterly Rock. The men outside, waiting politely for me, they’ll follow that order to the letter. There’s nothing that you could do to stop them…”

“Perhaps if we…”

“Jory, listen to me,” Tiresias hissed, cutting him off. He gripped the man’s shoulder with his good hand. An image of Jory sprung to his mind. His sword locked by Ser Jaime, a knife in his eye…

_Focus, man, focus! _He breathed and met Jory in the eyes, speaking low.

“You’ll gain no honor by dying here. By defying these men. However, there are other tasks that must be carried out. Gendry needs an escort to Winterfell. Those items must be delivered to Lord Stark and there must not be any fuss over a foreign librarian accepting an invitation from the Warden of the West.”

Jory inclined his head.

“Jory, we don’t have time for this.” Tiresias lowered his voice even more, unsuccessfully attempting to contain his rising anxiety. “Swear to me that you’ll do this. Please!”

Finally the Winterfell guard raised his head. “Only if you swear that you’ll return to Winterfell alive and well.”

Tiresias nodded. “I’ll do my best. I’ll try to satisfy Tywin’s curiosity. But that’s all I can swear. Will that suffice?”

Jory’s nostrils flared, but he nodded jerkily. Tiresias sighed and released the guard’s shoulder.

He walked to the end of the bed, where Gendry handed him his packed rucksack.

“I put the vial on top,” Gendry muttered. “So you could get at it easy. With one arm.”

“Thank you, Gendry,” he said. “Be safe and listen to Jory. He’ll get you to Winterfell in one piece.”

The lad nodded and offered him the fur jacket. Tiresias pushed it back gently.

“Keep it. You’ll need it more than me up there.”

Tiresias hitched the rucksack over his left shoulder, turning back to Jory.

“After you send the letter, head west. A couple miles after Deep Den, there’s a road heading north to Hornvale, and then the Golden Tooth, where you’ll meet the Riverroad. Head east to Riverrun. I think you know the way from there, aye?”

Jory nodded. He stuck out his hand and Tiresias shook it.

“Thank you for everything, Jory. Gendry. Hope I see you two soon.”

Gendry offered his hand as well and Tiresias shook it, before crossing to the door.

“What about Mal?” asked Jory quietly. “Do you want me to pass on a message?”

Tiresias paused, his hand on the knob. He turned back, thinking.

“Well, I already told Gord to say I’m sorry…so best not repeat that…” He sighed and shrugged. “I still intend to come home. I still want to speak to her. It’ll be more than half a year…tell her I’ll make it up to her, if she’d let me.”

_Christ, what a ramble._

Nevertheless, Jory nodded. So Tiresias gave a halfhearted grin and shut the door, walking back to the mandatory escort.

The appearance of Lannister soldiers had spurned the other inhabitants from the inn outside. He exited the inn amid their mutterings to see two singular soldiers on foot, waiting for him. The other red soldiers had reconfigured, their mounts facing the Goldroad. His departure will have an audience.

Captain Artos Lantell saw him exit the inn and nodded to his rear. His spotted horse situated just behind the middle of the group, ready to be mounted. Tiresias forced himself to nod back, hitching his rucksack over his shoulder, before walking forward.

As he stalked from the inn, flanked by the two soldiers, he heard a low mutter from an old man, wishing him luck. His fingers, curled around the rucksack strap on his left shoulder, automatically raised in acknowledgement.

_Thanks. I’ll damn well need it._

He didn’t look back though. He walked in between all the handsome, shining horses and came to his own spotted one. Another soldier was holding her reins and she seemed easy with him. As he came to her side, one of the soldiers squatted and crossed his hands for a step. Tiresias shook his head.

“Thank you, but there’s no need.” He reached up and gripped the horn, hoping he wouldn’t look a fool. Or cause himself considerable pain.

Releasing a breath, he managed to lift his left foot high enough to reach the stirrup. Stepping into it, he lifted himself onto the seat, swinging his right foot over and finding the other stirrup. His horse huffed a little, but he was mounted.

As he was handed his reins, he resisted the urge to glance back at the inn. He hoped Jory and Gendry remained in the room until the hooves have faded away. He hoped this wouldn’t be the last they saw of him.

The two remaining Lannister soldiers mounted their horses and Captain Artos turned to the front.

“Forward, men!” His calls echoed in the forest. “Easy canter! Onward.”

He gently kicked the sides of his steed and proceeded towards the Goldroad. The horses in front began to move and his mare only followed. He didn’t even have to tap her.

Bringing the slackened reins down, he held onto the horn tightly. It wouldn’t do to fall and injure himself further. It was only a light canter too. He knew he couldn’t handle the true speed of a horse. Not with one good arm. He hoped Captain Artos realized that.

As they descended to the Goldroad and turned west, Tiresias tried to clear his face of any pain from his arm jostling, of any rage at this coercion, of any fear of Lord Tywin’s intentions. He didn’t wish to give the Old Lion anything to weaponize against him. Not even by proxy through his soldiers.

Still, he was weak. Still broken. Still reliant on Milk of the Poppy for the deep aches. The men around him saw that. He knew they did. He knew as well that they could see the sweat beginning to run down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the response to the last chapter! Hope you had a good week!
> 
> Ch. 32 will be posted on Tuesday, barring any tragedies.
> 
> Stay safe!


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

Tiresias dismounted, staggering slightly as his feet found the ground. A familiar bolt of pain shot through his arm, but he kept his mouth clamped as he handed the reins to Tomas. He stalked away from the horses, sidestepping Lannister cloaks as he headed to the stream.

With his teeth, he unhitched the cap in his waterskin and held it under the water. Some of the soldiers joined him at the edge, filling their own skins. They said nothing to him and he gratefully returned the favor. If he opened his mouth, a moan might escape him as the ache pulsed from his arm. His itchy, hot, broken arm…

He couldn’t say why he was so invested in being stoic. These soldiers weren’t idiots. Despite his silence, they knew he was in pain. He moved too gingerly.

_Splint’s a bit of a dead giveway too, aye?_

They did offer some help. Or rather Tomas, the youngest soldier in this outfit, offered to help, most likely on commands from the Captain. Artos Lantell had yet to say another word to Tiresias since they had left the inn.

It had been four days. Tomas had taken care of his horse and handed him a full bowl during meals. Tiresias felt that was enough. He declined any help with refilling his waterskin, rolling out his sleeping pad and he still climbed off and on his mount of his own accord.

Finding a comfortable rock, he sat, sipping the stream water, watching as the Lannister camp formed. It was quite something. Not that the Stark retinues he had traveled with were less efficient, but there was a formality and a precision to this outfit that he supposed was only expected with a man like Tywin Lannister at the head.

Tiresias lowered the skin. The thoughts of meeting Tywin Lannister filled him with dread. As much as he loved watching the character, he had no previous inclination to receive the Old Lion’s attention. Once important enough to be in his gaze, one was either an asset or an enemy. Tiresias had no desire to be an asset…and he was in no condition to be an enemy. Not with a broken arm and surrounded by Lannister swords in the Westerlands.

He swung his rucksack around and fished out the Milk of the Poppy, burrowed safely in his bundled cloak. Getting the vial open unaided was a bastard of a task, but he managed it with some dignity. Placing a solitary drop from the drip onto his tongue, he closed the vial, returning it to its place.

A cooling relief crept throughout his body. Not totally dulling. He still felt the ache, but for the first time since he dismounted the horse, he actually relaxed and took in the summer evening scenery.

The scenery was littered though with Lannister soldiers, who looked away as he made eye contact. Tiresias took out a cloth and made his way to the water again. He wetted the cloth and wiped the sweat from his face. He didn’t try to hide the Milk of the Poppy. He wasn’t embarrassed by that.

_But that’s not why they’re staring at you…_

Ever since the inn, the stares stayed consistent. The men remained silent though. He strongly suspected they were under orders not to question him. However, as he glanced to them, catching their eyes before they looked away, he saw many things: bewilderment, disbelief, questions, curiosity and once or twice, fear…

Although, Tiresias had to admit that fear was only present during the first day. By the time they camped down for their first evening, it was readily apparent that he was in no condition to fight anyone.

The rest of the expressions stayed though and they made for some quiet evenings. He would sit down at one of their fires and that circle of soldiers became quite mute. He probably wasn’t helping. His own eyes darted between the dancing flames and the faces of his escort and it inspired only silence. It was almost a relief when it was time to sleep.

Tonight though…it didn’t feel right. As he took a full bowl of stew from Tomas, he couldn’t bring himself to eat. As the other soldiers started to eat, he found himself staring at the flames trying to remember…

“Something wrong with your stew?”

He turned to Tomas, who had asked the question politely enough. A few other soldiers stopped eating to watch. Finally Tiresias smiled and shook his head. He remembered the beginning now.

With no guitar, he began to tap his leg lightly, getting into the beat. His eyes returned to the fire as he started to sing softly…

“They say you're seeing someone, you're wearing his ring.  
They say you laughed when you heard my name.  
They say he takes you dancing, he holds you so near.  
They say he'll buy you anything.  
Tell me, am I foolish? I don't believe these stories  
And I'll be coming home soon.

Louise, Louise, if it's true  
Tell it to me.”

All the soldiers had paused their eating, staring at him. It was more curiosity than enchantment, but they were quiet.

“I know, you will not see me, but I know you have a daughter  
And I hear she has my eyes.  
They say she calls him father, and he's proud of her  
And even believes all your lies.  
But for all your faithless beauty, I'd give all my tomorrows  
And if you're still thinking of me,  
Louise, Louise, if it's true  
Tell it to me.”

He hummed through the refrain again. There was supposed to be an instrument here, a sound that he couldn’t remember. He only recalled how it felt. How it saddened and comforted him all at once.

“Oh Louise, Louise, if it's true  
Tell it to me.  
Oh Louise, Louise, if it's true  
Tell it to me…”

He ceased tapping his leg, fading the words into the crackling fire. Taking a few seconds before looking up, he realized the other nearby campfire was quiet too, looking over at him.

A light clapping intruded on the silence. He turned back to see Tomas applauding him softly. A couple others joined in. Tiresias let out a breath he had probably been holding ever since the inn. The applause ceased quickly, but it broke something in this escort. He was already nervous about meeting Lord Tywin, as he should be. He didn’t need to fear this as well.

His heart considerably lighter, he placed his bowl strategically in his lap.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Forgive me…I didn’t think I could handle one more quiet evening by the fire.”

Once the bowl was settled securely, he picked up his spoon and began to eat.

“Was that a Northern song?” asked Tomas.

Mouth full of stew, he shook his head. “Across the Narrow Sea.”

He could sense Tomas had more questions, but the young soldier swallowed them and returned to his own bowl. None of the other soldiers said anything more. The familiar noises of dinner filled the air, but it was different. The song broke the ice or at least slightly cracked it.

Whatever it did, he certainly felt better. He was confident that these soldiers weren’t here to hurt him. They weren’t going to shut him up when he sang, at least.

After he finished his stew, he walked gingerly over to the stream and washed it as well as he could with one hand. Tomas took his bowl back and he sat down again by the fire. Seeing that the soldiers were still tight-lipped around him, he bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Over the past few nights, realizing that he was trapped by Lannisters forbidden to speak to him, he opened his ears up to the forest at night, trying to pass the time before bed. It was rather fascinating. To hear the woods outside of the North at night. If anything else, it took him out of his body for a time. Away from a healing, aching arm.

This retinue of men scared away much of the small game. There was a larger animal downstream, but it was prowling away and soon, he couldn’t smell it. However, the birds were quite present and the soft wind did more to amplify the sounds of flight than to dull it. He lifted his head slightly…

“What are you doing?”

Tiresias blinked, opening his eyes to the question. A soldier across the fire was staring at him. He had a hooked nose and hadn’t revealed his name yet. The other men sat with their campfire hobbies; whittling, drinking, sharpening their swords. A few of them looked up at the man’s question.

After a brief consideration, Tiresias decided on honesty. “I was listening to the wildlife.”

He nodded behind the soldier. “There’s an owl up behind you. Not quite a hundred yards. She’s looking for her supper.”

After scratching his right hand gently, he pointed into the dark of the forest, to his left. “She’ll probably pick up the hare there in a minute or two. When the little fella moves.”

The hooked nose soldier turned to where Tiresias pointed, before coming back, his eyes mocking.

“You can hear all that?”

Tiresias declined to answer. In all fairness, he didn’t need to. Another soldier chimed in.

“Sure, he can, Edder.” The man next to him paused with his wetstone. “I heard that owl fart not one minute past. Didn’t you?”

Laughter went around the campfire. Tiresias felt his own grin grow. He preferred the mockery over the silence.

“Well, now,” said Edder, wiping a tear from his eye. “Mate, be sure and let us know of any other happenings in the forest, aye?”

Tiresias knew he should let it go, but he couldn’t help it.

“Certainly, Edder.” He raised his finger, pointing into the darkness up and behind the soldier. “She’s locked onto our long-eared friend now.”

He closed his eyes, focusing. The music of her wings undercut the laughter of the soldiers, which died quickly as he moved his finger, following the huntress. It was dead quiet when his point came to the unfortunate hare in the dark.

A loud squeal emanated from his left. More than one soldier jumped. He dropped his hand as the owl flew off, flapping her wings harder to carry the extra weight.

When he opened his eyes, he saw no laughter in the soldiers’ eyes. The fear was back in a few of them. He breathed quietly. He should have just stayed mum after the song. Why the hell didn’t he just fall silent and take the joshing?

Nobody else spoke for the rest of the night. Not until bed. As Tiresias was just about to lay down, he felt Tomas staring at him. He turned to the soldier, younger than Jory. He had a burning question in his eyes.

Tiresias sighed. “Yes, Tomas?”

Tomas cleared his throat. “Did you…did you really defeat Ser Gregor?”

The other soldiers stilled. Tiresias stared at Tomas. The young soldier wasn’t rude about it. He seemed genuinely curious, not yet jaded by violence. Just eager for the story. Tiresias was a little horrified by the curiosity. He had to let the fire crackle for a few more seconds before answering.

“Barely.”

With that, he laid down, hoping sleep would take him soon. Perhaps he should just stop sitting with the soldiers every night. He didn't need the heat of a fire and they still had a hundred miles to go before Casterly Rock. His arm hurt just thinking about it.

“How? How did you…?”

“Tomas, shut the fuck up,” murmured a bearded soldier from his sleeping pad.

He turned to see Tomas looking abolished. The young soldier quickly looked away from him and tucked into his own blankets.

_I stabbed his brain through his eye, Tomas. I was in so much pain. When I cradled my broken arm, I didn’t realize I was smearing his blood onto my skin. The maester had to clean it off._

Tiresias stared at Tomas for a bit before turning to the sky. He wondered if Jory and Gendry had passed Hornvale by now. Whether the raven from Deep Den had reached Winterfell. Did it fly as swiftly as the owl tonight? More so?

_Another question, Tiresias…what advantage will it bring you for Tywin Lannister to know of your hearing? Because he will know before he sees you. These men will account for it._

Tiresias carefully settled his right arm across his stomach.

_I sure hope their stunned looks were worth it._

* * *

Like the Wall, Casterly Rock came into view while substantial time remained to reach it. Though it wasn’t a full day as it was with the Wall, they still rode through a large amount of farmland. Captain Artos led the company off the Goldroad, which would have continued into Lannisport. Tiresias saw the sea town to his left as they proceeded to the castle.

Unlike Winterfell, there were no settlements surrounding Casterly Rock. The last half mile was a steady climb, zigzagging into the cliffs. Thankfully the sun’s heat was tempered by the stiff winds from the ocean. Tiresias breathed it in. It felt good to be near the water again.

Eventually they reached level ground again. It took another five minutes through the rock before they came to a clearing, where a very large castle awaited.

_The home of the richest family in Westeros…_

Tiresias glanced to the area surrounding the castle walls. He saw where the Unsullied had attacked. Despite the dupe by Jaime Lannister, they still took the castle quite easily with Tyrion’s backdoor.

_Best keep that information to yourself, man. You might need it one day if you come back here for one reason or another._

Going back to the castle, he scoured it further. Records in Winterfell put the Lannister garrison in this place at ten thousand men. It certainly seemed large enough from what he could see. Not to mention the catacombs below, mined into the cliff. The sun glared off the white marble, blinding him slightly.

Either way, he didn’t have much time to admire the castle. The soldiers, spurned by the sight of their home, kicked their mounts into a trot for a last spurt. They approached the largest gate that Tiresias had ever seen. Even the Red Keep didn’t boast an entrance this wide. He heard a horn sound as they neared and the gates creaked open to admit them.

The horses slowed as they came into the courtyard, cobblestoned and sculptured to welcome guests to the Rock. The shoes from their mounts echoed off the stone. Tiresias barely had time to take it in as they continued to ride farther into the castle. They passed another gate and the clops from the horses dulled as they rode onto dirt. This new area was devoted to the largest stables that Tiresias had ever seen. Hundreds of horses, easily. And plenty of stablehands to tend to them. Some of them rushed over to their company, taking the reins as the soldiers dismounted.

Tiresias dismounted with the rest of them, moving out of their way. As quickly as he could without seeming to flee. He leaned against the stone wall, his arm hurting more than ever. Not even the grand sight of the Rock could distract him. As the soldiers were sorting out their steeds, he took out the Milk of the Poppy and placed another drop on his tongue.

He eyed the vial before putting it away. It was empty now and his relief was at an end. In a way, he was glad. Any temptation to become reliant on such a substance was fading fast.

Also, he suddenly realized that it probably wasn’t the best thing to take right before meeting the Old Lion…

Cursing himself, he swung his skin up, finishing off the last of his water. The slight dulling was already spreading through him. He lowered the skin to see Captain Artos marching towards him.

The Captain halted before him. “Come with me,” he stated before turning around immediately to walk away.

Tiresias corked his skin. He had gotten very good at that with only one hand.

“Excuse me, Captain,” he called.

A considerable distance away, Captain Artos turned, the surprise evident on his face. However, he remained put, so Tiresias kicked off the wall and walked over.

He reached the Captain, blinking to focus. “Might a man piss before he meets the Lord of Casterly Rock?”

The latrines were as impressive as any he had seen in Westeros. He leaned against the cool stone as he relieved himself. He hadn’t slept well on the journey despite the Milk of the Poppy. And the encroaching meeting with Lord Tywin was only filling his limbs with slow jitters. It was the leanest adrenaline he could remember.

His arm felt sore again as he exited the latrines. Captain Artos didn’t bother to instruct him to follow. He just turned and Tiresias fell in step, flanked by four guards.

“Captain Artos,” he said as they proceeded to the first courtyard. “I don’t suppose you’re in a position to offer bread and salt?”

Artos didn’t even turn around. “No,” he stated brusquely.

Tiresias sighed. “Aye, I fucking figured,” he muttered. He hitched his rucksack up as they reached the front door. A servant quickly opened it, bowing as they passed.

It certainly wasn’t the first time that Tiresias was escorted to meet a lord in his castle. Not even including the first time he had entered Winterfell. He was familiar to the northern lords, having always introduced himself as he visited their keeps for tomes. None of the escorts to their solars equaled this though. He walked deeper and deeper into the Rock. It was difficult to believe it had started as a simple ring fort.

They passed hall after hall. Eventually they came to glass windows, where Tiresias spied a second stable, rows of barracks, a forge and a third stable. He smelled gardens and kitchens large enough to be smelled over the salt of the ocean.

All of which worked for him. It was no question that this castle smelled better than any other he visited. Only Winterfell smelled sweeter. Although perhaps that was his own bias.

As he registered this, Captain Artos led him to some stairs. They ascended a total of eight stairwells. Having no easy way to guess the actual height, Tiresias estimated they had climbed to the very top of the castle. They proceeded down a corridor, with dozens of tapestries. Handsome faces with blonde hair stared him down as they walked forward.

Artos stopped, putting his hand up to halt them all. They stood a fair distance away from the end. Where a dark mahogany door stood, with two guards at attention.

“Wait here,” Artos said, before walking to the door. Tiresias turned to the glass windows. He saw the coastline quite well from this height. His eyes still on the window, he heard Artos knock.

“Enter.”

The command was faint through the door, but Tiresias recognized the voice all the same. His stomach clenched and he breathed slowly to relax it, as he heard Artos open the door and closed it behind him.

He turned his ears away from the door, trying to focus. Trying to neutralize his face. Trying to enter Tywin’s solar without looking too weak.

A snort came out of him before he could stop it.

_Good luck with that, mate. You’re exhausted from the journey. You have a broken arm and the Milk of the Poppy doesn’t bode well for sharp conversation._

He turned back to the solar door. One of the guards looked slightly bewildered at his snort. The other one was quite stoic. He supposed Tywin preferred guards with as much humor as him.

A moment or more passed before the door opened. Tiresias went to take a swig from his waterskin before remembering he had finished it off down by the stables. Artos appeared from the solar and gestured for the librarian to come forward. He complied, his feet growing heavier and heavier as he did.

Nodding lightly to Artos, he went to enter before the Captain stopped him.

“Your dagger.”

Tiresias suppressed a sigh. It wasn’t like he was in any condition to use it. He unsheathed the dagger slowly and handed to the Captain. Artos Lantell passed the blade over to the right guard and entered the solar. Steeling himself, Tiresias followed the Captain.

He entered the largest solar he’d ever seen. The room faced west which flooded the room with golden light as the sun began to set. A marbled balcony bordered the office. Tiresias squinted his eyes against the reflecting light and brought them to the desk at the other end.

Tywin Lannister was framed by the shelves behind him. With perhaps a hundred tomes of elegant design. The sunlight caught the remaining blonde in his hair, slightly less gray than it was in the show. His eyes were to his desk, his hand writing sharply.

Artos stepped forward. “My Lord, may I present Tiresias?”

The quill stopped as Tywin raised his head, peering straight at him. Tiresias nodded automatically, keeping his eyes on the lord.

“Lord Tywin,” he said. A little too softly for his liking.

Tywin took only an extra beat before returning to his letter.

“Leave us, Captain.” Despite the size of the room, he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

Artos bowed, with a quick “My Lord,” before crossing behind him. He closed the door, leaving Tiresias alone in the Old Lion’s den.

_No…no, I’ve been alone since the inn._

He stood waiting for a few seconds but the only sounds in this solar were the distant crashes of the waves below and the scratching of Tywin’s quill. Tiresias tucked his head and chuckled silently. Even the esteemed Lord of Casterly Rock wasn’t above this petty game. Though he had no doubt that Tywin could conduct his Lord’s business and interrogate him simultaneously.

Deciding to get comfortable, he walked over to the desk and dropped his rucksack next to one of the chairs in front. He managed to summon enough dignity so that he didn’t just fall into it. Besides his arm still ached. As he lowered himself gingerly, he heard Tywin break his silence.

“I didn’t give you leave to sit,” the lord remarked, his eyes down on his letter.

Tiresias adjusted his shirt. “No, my Lord, but you don’t seem like a man who’d waste a chair.”

That line wasn’t his, as much as he loved it. It stopped the quill though. Tywin placed it in its holder and leaned back, his arms poised regally. He regarded Tiresias steadily, who shrugged lightly.

“Besides,” he said. “I was under the impression that I was your guest. Course, I haven’t been offered bread and salt since I arrived. So…perhaps I assumed too much.”

“You’re the man who killed Ser Gregor?” The question cut through everything. Tiresias resisted the urge to tense and nodded.

“Aye,” he said. “The big fellow in yellow.” He leaned back against the chair. “A trial-by-combat. I volunteered to fight for the other party.”

He tried to suppress a yawn, but he was too tired. Covering his mouth, he did it as quickly and quietly as possible.

“’Cuse me—”

“Why did you volunteer?” Tywin interrupted him, not interested in any excuses.

Tiresias shrugged. “Didn’t seem like a fair fight. The innkeeper versus the Mountain.”

“Did you know the innkeeper personally?”

“I took an ale and a biscuit at his inn the previous day. His daughter, the one that was raped, served me. But I’ve never seen him before then. Never even set foot in the Westerlands before, my Lord. Most of my time in Westeros I’ve spent in the North. I’m employed in Winterfell.”

“What is your occupation?”

“I’m a librarian.”

“What is your real occupation?”

Tiresias took a beat before responding, making sure his tone wasn’t combative.

“That is my real occupation, my Lord. I’ve been the librarian at Winterfell for a little more than five years. Curating tomes from the North. Translating from the Old Tongue. Maintaining the library itself. I’ve also started to repair some of the older works and that takes a decent amount of my time. Hardly any of the tomes are in the pristine condition as the ones surrounding you.”

Tywin’s nostrils flared very slightly. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that a librarian defeated Ser Gregor in one-on-one combat?”

Tiresias scratched his arm. Carefully.

“Don’t really have to take my word for it. There were plenty of witnesses. I’ve never partook in one of these things before, but it seemed that Lord Lydden proceeded as well as he could. I was focused on other things during the duel, as you can well imagine, but Lord Brax was present. As was Lord Prestor from Feastfires…”

“I’m aware of the other lords present,” Tywin cut across him again. Tiresias caught his eye flit across an open letter before returning to him. He expected that several ravens have flown between Casterly Rock and Deep Den during the past fortnight.

“Why were you in the Westerlands to begin with?”

He looked back to Tywin.

“I was headed toward Lannisport.”

“Why?”

“It’s the largest settlement around these parts, though I’m sure you know that. I wanted to travel and see the sights.”

Tiresias shifted his seat, rubbing his eyes.

“Travel,” Tywin rolled the word out slowly. “You were traveling for leisure?”

Making his throat was relaxed before he spoke, Tiresias answered.

“I managed to win quite a bit of coin from the tourney in King’s Landing. I was fortunate in my gamble during the joust, having bet on Ser Loras Tyrell. Winterfell is quite the distance from all else in Westeros, my Lord. If I didn’t take the chance now, I don’t know when I would have traveled south again. I’m no lord. Don’t have much opportunity for leisurely travel. It wasn’t all pleasure though. I was planning to take a ship from Lannisport down to Oldtown. Visit the Citadel and see if they’d be willing to part with any tomes they might have in the Old Tongue.”

Tiresias sighed. “Of course, this was all before the trial. Afterwards…well, I was ready to head home, back North. After I’d recovered enough.”

“You stayed at the same establishment owned by this innkeeper you fought for?”

“I did. He was kind enough to let me stay there and heal. Your men were quite fortunate to find me before I was able to travel.”

That small bite left his mouth before he could stop it. Tywin didn’t seem to care though.

“Why did you volunteer to fight for him?”

Tiresias gazed at Tywin as even as he could. “I believe I've already answered that, my Lord.”

The Old Lion breathed slowly.

“Let me make one thing clear to you, Tiresias. You are here because my bannerman is dead. Killed in a trial-by-combat that seems more farcical the more I learn about it. I’ve been attempting for the past fortnight to make sense out of what happened. Because what happened does not make any sense.

“So tell me truthfully…why did you volunteer to fight Ser Gregor? Why is he dead?”

Tywin didn’t raise his voice, but it took everything Tiresias had not to shrink in his chair. The fact that he was exhausted helped immensely. He exhaled as silently as he could.

“Ser Gregor raped a young girl. From I heard since, that was quite a common occurrence with the man. But I do despise rape, Lord Tywin, and I particularly don’t like it when smallfolk are raped by the highborn.”

He shrugged. “That’s all there is to it. I volunteered because I was angry and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I won…but I certainly didn’t expect to. Not when I saw him walk fully armored into that hall.”

“Were you not aware of Ser Gregor’s reputation when you volunteered to fight him?”

Tiresias shook his head. “Not really. Knew he was from the Westerlands. Knew his banner from a book. Saw he was tall. Not much else. I knew he was a good fighter, but I never saw him do so.”

“Didn’t you see him fight at the tourney?”

“Didn’t stay for the melee. I heard Lord Royce won that. So no, I never saw him fight.” He paused for a bit, sighing. “Discovered he could during the duel though, that’s for sure. Nearly took me out.”

He sighed. “I was lucky. That’s why Ser Gregor is dead. I was quick and lucky. I’m sure Lord Lydden mentioned such in one of his letters.”

Tywin took his turn to exhale silently. Tiresias caught his nostrils flaring again, ever so slightly.

“And how did a librarian become so quick and lucky?”

“In Essos, we are not so strict with the divides between our roles. Just because I’m a librarian doesn’t mean I can’t train as well. There’s time in the evening to be spent in the yard. After I'm done with my duties as a librarian for the day...though I will say; no training could have prepared me for what happened in Deep Den. Anger propelled me to fight. Luck saved me.”

“So, you merely volunteered to fight out of anger then?” asked Tywin.

“Anger blinds us all, my Lord,” said Tiresias evenly. “I certainly didn’t think about the consequences if I had won. For me or you…or anyone else.”

He laughed lightly. “Though, I’m sure Lord Stark will have words for me when I return. He’s very concerned for the safety of the servants of his house.”

Another itch crawled up his splint, but he resisted the urge this time.

“So, my Lord, is there anything else you would like to know this evening?” A yawn escaped him. “Forgive me. It was a long ride with one good arm and I’ve downed the last of my Milk of the Poppy when I arrived. The ache was rather immense.”

The piercing light across the solar didn’t affect Tywin as he stared him down. He simply leaned back, out of the sun’s rays. Nothing more was said for a moment. Finally Tywin turned to the door.

“Page!” he called. A young man immediately opened the door. He crossed to the center of the room and stood at attention.

Lord Tywin held the silence for another beat before nodding to the side.

“Bring the tray and pour wine for our guest.”

Tiresias maintained eye contact with the Old Lion, though unlike Tywin, he did blink freely. He blinked as he looked down to see a tray before him. Bread, salt and wine.

“As Lord of Casterly Rock, I offer you bread and salt. And welcome you as a guest, until you recover in full. And when you are ready to travel, you will be supplied for the trek back to Winterfell.”

Tiresias blinked. “My Lord…Maester Seamas, the one who set my arm at Deep Den, he told me it would be several sennights before it was healed.”

“Then you shall stay for several sennights.” He picked up his quill, but didn’t dip it in the inkwell just yet. His eyes still penetrated the librarian. “I trust that despite your arm, you will write to Lord Stark and inform him of the situation.”

Not in the mood for another staring contest, Tiresias instead eyed the tray before him. Would this really protect him from Tywin for however long he stayed here? He had hoped to do this in front of a crowd. With actual witnesses. He doubted this silent page would be much assistance.

He tore off a piece of bread.

_If it was a meaningless gesture, he wouldn’t have bothered for my sake._ Perhaps he was stupid for thinking so. However, he was tired and he wanted the evening to be over.

He dipped the bread into the wine and then the salt lightly. Taking a single bite, he washed it down with a gulp of wine.

Satisfied, Tywin dipped his quill into the inkwell and continued his letters, lowering his eyes.

“You shall see Maester Creylen now. See if that arm was set correctly. My page here will escort you.”

Tiresias reached down for his rucksack, only to see that the page had already collected it off the floor. Ignoring the urge to insist on shouldering it, he nodded wearily and began to follow the page.

“And Tiresias…”

He paused and turned back to the Warden, who continued to scribble as he spoke, his eyes downcast.

“That dagger of yours will remain in your quarters during your stay here.”

Not in any position to argue, Tiresias nodded.

“Aye, my Lord. Agreed.” He inclined his head slightly. “Thank you, my Lord, for your hospitality.”

Tywin’s eyes came up briefly but fell quickly back to the parchment. Not expecting anything more, Tiresias turned back and followed the page out of the solar, pausing only to retrieve the dagger from a silent Artos Lantell.

It was another flight of stairs down before he allowed himself to sigh in relief. He hoped the page didn’t hear it.

* * *

If Tiresias had any energy to spare, he would have devoted a decent amount of it to remaining stoic as Maester Creylen removed his splint. Hiding the pain. However, he just couldn’t manage it.

Fortunately the maester had gentle hands and so his reaction was reduced to hissing as Creylen unwrapped and examined his arm. He held it to the firelight, instructing Tiresias to bring each finger, one at a time, to his thumb. He had regained some movement in his right hand and was able to do so, albeit a fair amount of discomfort.

Tiresias blinked a fresh tear away. “Your opinion, Maester?”

Creylen ran a soft finger along his forearm. “You’re a fortunate man, Tiresias. I’m afraid I don’t know Maester Seamas that well. However, if this arm is anything to go by, he’s certainly an astute healer.”

“So it’s healing correctly?”

“You really shouldn’t have ridden from Deep Den all the way here. Not in your condition. But as far as I am able to say…yes, this arm was set correctly and the healing not impeded by the journey.”

A sigh of relief escaped him before he could stop it. “Thank God.”

“Yes, yes,” muttered Creylen, going to his shelves. “All seven of them. Now, if you’d allow me…”

Creylen placed the splint back, wrapping it gently. Tiresias gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to wipe his forehead.

“How much longer?” he asked, desperate for any distracting conversation. “How long ‘til I’m healed?”

“When was the break?”

Tiresias shrugged, but only with his left shoulder. “A month, give or take a day.”

Creylen tied off the splint. “Then another month until the splint comes off. But you should avoid any physical exertion until the arm is truly set and strong again. That would be another fortnight after.”

He brought his arm back to his stomach, cradling it. “Lord Tywin’s rather insistent that I stay here until I’m recovered.”

“I’ll inform his Lordship on the morrow of your condition and my recommendation.”

Tiresias slid off the table, reaching down for his rucksack.

_A month and a half in the Rock…fucking superb._

“I’ll need to write to Lord Stark.”

Maester Creylen nodded. “You’ll be able to send a letter in the morning. A raven should reach Winterfell rather hastily.”

The maester placed the old bandages in a covered basket. Smells of shit and blood reached Tiresias’ nostrils before the cover was back.

“For tonight, however,” said Creylen, crossing to his stores. “I’ll give you something for the pain. Milk of the Poppy…”

“No,” interjected Tiresias, shaking his head. “No, I’m…I rather wean off it. Or anything else.”

Creylen shrugged, placing the vial back. “Not the worst idea. All I can recommend otherwise is a meal you don’t need to cut and a level bed.”

Once he had checked the gash on his chest, which had healed much more rapidly, he set Tiresias off with a steward. He dully followed the servant, who silently escorted him to the southern part of the castle, to the guest quarters. In between heavy blinks, he opened his eyes to find himself in a room larger than his own at Winterfell. Scents flew through an open window. He smelled sea salt and the forge from down below. Walking forward, he leaned out and saw the distant lights from Lannisport, the boats coming in with the evening tide.

Behind him, the servant had proceeded to build a fire in the hearth. Tiresias was too tired to tell him not to bother. He turned and saw a bathtub framed by the flames. The servant stood.

“Would the gentleman be needing a bath this evening?”

_I needed a wash a fortnight ago._

Tiresias nodded. “Aye. Aye, thank you.”

“I’ll send hot water up. Would you need assistance washing? With your injury?”

“No,” Tiresias lied immediately. He barely let Jory help him at the inn. Besides he was a little less helpless than he was then. “I’ll manage.”

The servant nodded. “Very well, Ser. I’ll send supper shortly after.”

“Thank you,” murmured Tiresias, walking over to the fire and sitting down. It was too comfortable. He might just fall asleep here…

“And Ser…”

“I’m no Ser,” Tiresias said softly. He sighed. “I’m not a knight. A lord or a gentleman.”

He met the servant’s eyes. They were quite impassive.

“I’m just Tiresias.”

The man nodded. “Very well, Tiresias. Would you care for your clothes to be laundered?”

“Will they be ready in the morn? I’m afraid I don’t have any clean spare clothes.”

“If you wish, they will be ready when you wake. However, there are clothes in the drawers for your use. We ascertained your size when you entered the castle. If you find that they don’t fit, we’ll amend that immediately.”

Tiresias stared at him. He didn’t see any humor in the man’s eyes.

“Your boots, though, will be ready by morning,” continued the servant.

He nodded wearily. “All right…thank you. Aye, don’t make them stay up…I’ll just wear what’s in the drawer.”

“Very good, Tiresias. I could take your laundry now if you wish.”

Tiresias open his rucksack and dumped out the contents. He threw his spare shirt on top of the cloak and kicked off his boots. Too tired to care about any vanity at this point, he proceeded to strip, gingerly working his shirt around his arm.

The pragmatic nature in the man’s eyes suggested to Tiresias that he had seen more than his fair share of nude nobility and guests. He didn’t even blink as he took the bundled cloak from Tiresias and bowed lightly.

“The hot water will arrive in a few moments. A meal should follow in a half-hour. Welcome to Casterly Rock, Tiresias.”

“Thank you,” said Tiresias. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”

The man halted in his turn to the door. “What’s your name?”

“I’m not permitted to say, Tiresias,” he answered without hesitation. He bowed slightly again and exited the room.

The nameless servant spoke true. Within moments of his departure, there was a knock on the door and two maids arrive with jugs of steaming water. He stood behind the chair for some semblance of modesty. However they didn’t even look twice. They merely set the jugs down and departed.

Bathing was a tricky task with one good arm. The logical part in his mind told him he should have accepted the help. The nameless manservant wasn’t the danger in this place. He just couldn’t do it though. Being escorted by armed guard on the Goldroad soured him on the idea of being helped.

_You are being helped though. Nameless servants catering to your every whim._

Tiresias conceded the point. It didn’t change the fact that for just one evening, he wanted to be alone. Somewhat.

After an awkward wash and an insufficient dry, his supper arrived with a knock on the door. Wrapping himself in a thin towel, he was able to look the maid in the eyes as she wheeled in a trolley with a tray and three separate pitchers. After setting the tray and pitchers on the table, she curtsied and departed.

The Lannister guards ate well when they camped on the road. At this point in the day, Tiresias was so hungry that he would have eaten anything. However, the prospect of an extended stay at Casterly Rock was lightened as he lifted the tray to reveal his supper.

_A man could get used to this._

The main dish was a lentil and onion stew. There was also a spiced squash with crumbled goat cheese and a small, fresh loaf of olive bread with dipping vinegar on the side. He reached for the dessert, a pear tort, and took a bite of that first.

As for the pitchers, there was cool water and dark red wine. He didn’t care for wine particularly. However this wine sang over his tongue as he drank. The third pitcher, he was surprised to discover, contained cooled fresh milk. A little strange, but probably on the instruction of the maester. He needed the calcium for stronger bones, though he doubted they called it calcium…

Whatever the reason, he ate and drank well that evening, his weariness put off long enough to finish what on his plate. But that didn’t last long after. As he soaked up the last of the vinegar, his eyes began to droop. He scanned the room. His rucksack was still a mess on the floor. The empty buckets that carried the hot water were sideways. The window remained open.

He didn’t care. Standing and letting the drying cloth crumple to the floor, he stalked toward the bed, regaining just enough mind to prop his arm up with the spare pillows. There were quite a few of them.

* * *

Echoes from the cries of seabirds woke him the next morning. A breeze drifted across his chest and he opened his eyes to a bright blue sky. He groaned as he got up from the bed. One night of good sleep wouldn’t cure his weariness. Not from the travel, the injury or anything else. A small part of him was grateful to Tywin Lannister for his mandated hospitality.

He crossed the room, pausing in front of the window. Even at this distance, he could see Lannisport busy with activity. The harbor was relatively clear though. Most boats were out at the moment.

In Winterfell, in the very center of the North, he had forgotten the sounds and smells of the sea. Traveling to White Harbor and onto King’s Landing, it was impossible not to be uplifted by the sounds of the waves crashing and the smell of salt. To welcome the great open blue. He truly loved Winterfell, but…he couldn’t help but wish it was near the sea.

He sighed. _Well, you have quite a bit of time here to enjoy it. _

And he would have plenty of opportunities to simply gaze out this window. Moving onto the drawers, he inspected what attire had been left for him the day before. Simple, but neat trousers. The shirts were a little larger than he normally wore, but it made it easier to place his splint through the sleeve.

Not wishing to oppose Tywin in his home, he removed the sheath from his belt and placed the dagger in the drawers, before securing the belt around his waist.

Feeling a little embarrassed as he gazed around and saw the mess he had left last night, he tidied a bit; gathering the drying cloths, turning the pots right side up, organizing the rucksack, and pulling the bed covers over. It was hardly a suitable job with one good arm, but he felt better leaving this room for the nameless servant who would tend to it.

When he stepped out, he looked down to see his boots cleaned and ready for him. As the manservant promised. After he pulled them on, he realized he wasn’t too hungry. Plus, as he gauged the sun’s position, he probably missed breakfast. Not wanting to impose and deciding to wait for lunch…whenever or wherever it would be served, he decided to act his part and head for the library.

It took a few points from the castle staff and more than one wrong turn corrected. However, after walking for what he swore was a mile, he opened a pair of handsome doors in the western part of the castle and walked inside.

The room he entered was thrice as big as the library he had in Winterfell. It rivaled the Red Keep’s facility. The shelfs weren’t as compacted though. Tiresias estimated that they didn’t even have twice the number of tomes and scrolls as they did up north. The luxurious space was committed to just that: luxury. Exquisite rugs lined the floor. The ceiling was vaulted and high. More than a dozen tables were interspersed throughout the room, surrounded by chairs with elegant carvings. Couches of expensive color framed the hearth.

Perhaps best of all, there was a stone balcony. Tiresias pressed the glass doors open and stepped out, feeling the wind graze his buzzed head. There was furniture out here as well, along with braziers for cold nights. Or what passed for cold in the Westerlands.

Deciding to indulge in the sea breeze later, Tiresias went back inside, shutting the doors behind him. He prowled the shelves, noting the sections he passed. Most libraries he encountered in the Seven Kingdoms were quite similar in their organization. Histories took precedent. Along with the lineages of the noble and minor houses. He noticed in the Red Keep and here that the texts concerning the Seven were prominent as well. That was not common at all in the North.

After that, all the academic texts. And then, fiction, poems and songs usually were settled along a walled shelf. Reading was hardly the recreational activity that Tiresias remembered from his old world, though he tried to amend that.

As for the old texts not written in the Common Tongue, there were usually located prominently, as symbols of wealth and stature. The Northern keeps usually kept their tomes of Old Tongue in front. Here he didn’t see any Old Tongue volumes, though he did trace his finger along a few rows of Valyrian texts by the hearth.

If Casterly Rock had any Old Tongue volumes, he wagered they’d be in one place…

Ambling to the back corner, he found less than a dozen tomes. Honestly, he was astounded that he found that many. Running his finger along the spines, it came up clean. These volumes were most likely not well read, but the staff refused to let any inch of this library get dusty. He had to admire them for it.

Coming back with a trolley, he loaded every volume of the Old Tongue and carted them to a nearby table, remaining in the back of the library. He pulled out a carved chair, settling on the cushion and began to read.

Having gone nearly a month with no tomes, not to mention the two months he camped out in the Lonely Hills, his mind was starved for the pages. He read along, mouthing silently the words that Sorcha pounded into his mind. Having only intended to scan them, he quickly fell into the pages and didn’t notice the sun beginning to shine into the room as the morning turned to afternoon.

He was halfway through the first tome when he heard the library door creak open. He started slightly, wincing at the ache in his arm, having forgotten it in his fugue. The door shut and someone was walking slowly through the library. Tiresias sat still, silent.

“Hello?” called that someone. He froze, recognizing the voice. Somehow, in his anxiety of meeting Tywin Lannister, he had forgotten about any others who resided here…

That walking…sounded very much like footsteps made by someone quite short…

Tiresias peered to the edge of the shelf, where the footsteps were heading. He breathed and held it, trying to calm himself as Tyrion Lannister rounded the corner and stopped at the sight of him.

They stared at each other for a beat, before the dwarf broke the silence.

“Good afternoon. Are you Tiresias?” he asked, his eyes piercing just like his father’s.

Tiresias nodded numbly.

“I was told you were here,” Tyrion said, glancing over the old tomes on the table. “Have you been here all day?”

“I woke up late.” Tiresias shrugged. “Didn’t know what else to do. I am a librarian after all.”

His voice was a little ragged, having not drunk any water all day.

Tyrion laughed lightly. “You don’t have to excuse yourself.” He strode forward, his left hand extended. “I’m Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin.”

Tiresias stood, shaking his hand. “I figured that.”

Tyrion smiled. “Of course you did." He looked Tiresias up and down. “So...you’re the monster who killed my father’s favorite monster…”

“Surprised?”

“I suppose I must be,” said Tyrion. “Everyone stands tall from my eyes, but even the Mountain…I hope you take no offense when I say I can’t see how you possibly beat him.”

“None taken,” mumbled Tiresias. “Seems to be the common sentiment.”

He leaned against the table, sighing. “Are you here to interrogate me, as your father did yesterday?"

Tyrion smirked lightly. “Please, I have some decency. I’ll wait until we’re properly acquainted before I badger you for the bloody details.”

“Are we to be properly acquainted?”

“Plenty of time to do so while you recover.” He eyed Tiresias' splint. “Certainly didn’t come out of Deep Den unscathed, did you?”

There was no need to nod his head. He settled back into the chair again. Tyrion sat in the chair opposite, his eyes still on the splint.

“How long until you’re healed?”

Tiresias scratched the right wrist. Very gently. “Month and a half.”

Tyrion clapped his hands. “Month and a half! Well, that’s far too short of a time. But we’ll make the most of it.”

He stared at the dwarf. “The most of it?”

“Indeed! I’m excellent company. Despite what my father says.” He raised his eyebrows at the look on Tiresias’ face. “Oh I’m sorry, did you have other plans for your stay here?”

Tiresias shook his head numbly. “No…I just…”

“Figured you’d just read? Well, there’s plenty of time for that. Luckily I read as well and I enjoy it.” He tapped the table. “Actually you’re sitting in my favorite spot.”

He stared at the lord. “Truly?”

“No.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds, before Tyrion erupted into laughter. Tiresias felt a chuckle escape from him.

“There it is!” said Tyrion, pointing to him in triumph. “Now, tell me. Does your arm still hurt?”

“Aye, it does.”

“Oh.” Tyrion nodded as he considered this. “Well, we’ll have to have further distractions. Did you miss the midday meal?”

Tiresias nodded. “And breakfast.”

“How about an early supper here, then? We’ll get food and wine. And I’ll show you the real treasures of this library.”

“We don’t handle any tomes as we eat,” Tiresias said without thinking about it. Being a librarian made some rules automatic. “For their protection.”

Tyrion smiled. “Indeed. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tiresias couldn’t help, but smile back. It was his first in quite some time. He nodded, accepting the proposal.

Tyrion clapped his hands and jumped off the chair.

“Excellent!” He came around and began piling the tomes from the table back onto the trolley. “Come on. You can sit forgotten amongst the shelves back in Winterfell. Here, your eyes can drift between the sea and the pages.”

They wheeled the tomes back to a table before the balcony door. As Tiresias unloaded the tomes again, Tyrion went to the door and summoned a page. He didn’t turn his ear toward what the lord ordered, but it seemed substantial.

He was seated by the time Tyrion returned; all tomes unloaded.

“How much food did you order?” he asked, a little bewildered.

Tyrion walked past him, grabbing the trolley as he did. “Enough for a modest welcoming feast for an honored guest. Also, you missed two meals so I had to make up for that.”

Tiresias twisted in his chair to follow the dwarf. “You’re going to make me sick.”

Tyrion shrugged. “So be sick.” He paused before a shelf and pulled out a handsome tome. “If you are, run to the balcony and heave over the side.”

He placed the tome in the trolley. “Just be careful the wind doesn’t blow it back.”

The tomes seemed merely a pretense. Tyrion rolled a full trolley back with his own selection and sat down. They both attempted to read, but the conversation only continued. Tyrion asked about the Old Tongue, the library in Winterfell and its curation.

Before he knew it, the food arrived with three servants. Tyrion directed them to the balcony while Tiresias marked his place, determined at some point to return to the Old Tongue.

He ventured out to the balcony, thanking the servants as they passed. All three nodded but remained silent. The wind carried the smells off the trays and he knew it was delicious. His breath still caught when he saw the spread.

If he thought last night was luxury, this was something else. There were a dozen dishes here. He turned to Tyrion, who shrugged.

“I didn’t know what you wanted.”

He gestured for Tiresias to sit. Swallowing an enormous amount of saliva, he did so. Unable to help himself, he reached for the nearest dish, charred octopus, still steaming in the bowl. The heat didn’t bother him. Dipping the octopus piece into a spicy cream sauce and bringing it to his mouth, he felt tears well up.

He blinked to see Tyrion eyeing him as he poured wine. Tiresias nodded, savoring it as he chewed.

Finally he swallowed. “That’s good.”

Tyrion handed him a goblet. “Damn right it is.” He raised his own goblet. “To a month and a half as the honored guest of House Lannister.”

Tiresias returned the toast and continued to eat. As much as they tried to keep the conversation going, it kept coming back to the food. Tyrion informed him of each dish, of every spice, the surrounding farms, the fishing boats in Lannisport. All through full mouths, which could barely be understood over the evening sea wind.

As the sun began to set, they leaned back in their chairs, looking over the water. The dozen dishes were all gone. The second pitcher was the only thing left full, despite Tyrion’s best efforts. Tiresias had not forgotten his rule, drinking mostly water and nursing only his second goblet of wine.

“Oh, come now,” exclaimed Tyrion as Tiresias sipped. “You’re being a very rude guest, not keeping up with me.”

Tiresias set the goblet down. “I couldn’t keep up with you if I tried,” he said. “Besides…” He tapped his splint gently. “Can’t risk getting drunk. I could fall down and hurt myself.”

Tyrion waved his hand. “You have good balance.”

“Oh? You know that from our evening together?”

“I read the report from Lord Lydden. One of them, at least. More than one raven has flown between him and my father…” His eyes narrowed as he leaned back. “You danced around Ser Gregor, yes?”

Tiresias didn’t move, meeting Tyrion’s eyes. “Is that what Lord Lydden said?”

The staring contest only lasted for a couple more seconds before Tyrion shrugged blithely. “Said you were swift.”

Tiresias eyed his arm. “Not swift enough.”

“Horseshit,” said Tyrion, lifting a pitcher and refilling his goblet. “I know you’re swift. You must be.” He set the pitcher down and lifted his goblet, toasting Tiresias. “You’re still alive.”

He swallowed half the cup, before fixing Tiresias with a serious gaze. “But I meant what I said before.”

Clearing his throat, he lifted his hand. “On this I swear; I shall not badger, nag, harass, probe, inquire...or demand any bloody gossip from you concerning your victory. Not until we’re properly acquainted.”

“And how long before that’s the case?”

“Much quicker if you'd drink with me.” Tyrion lowered his hand. “When you’re ready though. When you’re ready, we’ll get drunk together.”

“We’ll see,” said Tiresias, turning to the sea. The sun had just finished setting. He could stare at the sea without it blinding him.

“Indeed, we will.” He saw Tyrion in his periphery turn to the sea as well. “I swear to that as well.”

There was no threat in the man’s word. Just play. At least he hoped. Perhaps Tiresias was just too excited to see Tyrion Lannister in the flesh. It was a fun dinner and a delightful conversation, especially compared to his father.

_Be careful though, man. He’s not your ally yet. And you no longer have the luxury of being a mere curiosity. Not after Deep Den._

Despite being a man who loved to talk, a drunk Tyrion seemed to know the value of listening to the waves. They sat in silence for a moment, hearing them crash into the rock below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, readers! In case it wasn't obvious from the river scene up North, I loved No Country for Old Men. That's where the chair quip came from.
> 
> Also, thank you for your hits, comments and kudos. I was so excited to reach over 1000 kudos last week, which is more than I ever expected from a OC-centered fanfic. So thank you!
> 
> Ch. 33 will be published on Tuesday. Until then, be safe. Wear a mask and look into voting early.
> 
> PS: The song in this chapter was "Tell It To Me" as sung by Tom Waits. Here's a link to it.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BwmXky4GgD8


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

Time played strange tricks on Tiresias’ mind over the next few sennights. The hours dragged on, but when evening came and the sea shone gold with the setting sun, it seemed that the entire day had melted away rather quickly.

The ache didn’t help. Though the pain lessened and he regained dexterity in the fingers in his right hand, the progress was gradual. He slept more than he had in years. In between all the espionage in the North, King’s Landing and traveling into the Westerlands, he hadn’t found a true place to refocus and rebuild his strength. It also helped that he had no library to curate. He was simply expected to be a lazy ass and recover.

So despite being hosted by one of the most dangerous lords in Westeros, he resolved to recoup his strength. He slept in most mornings. Then after breakfast, he usually went to the library. His pile of tomes remained undisturbed and he simply picked up where he had left off previously.

Lunch happened wherever he could find it. Food was in abundance in the Rock and it was no difficulty to find substance as he wandered the Lannister home. It took him a few days to explore all the rooms that Casterly Rock had to offer. At least, on top of the cliff. The catacombs below he left to the household.

Tyrion was usually able to find him. He had numerous servants to point towards the stranger in his home. His short step was quite familiar to Tiresias by now.

Their conversations usually started with Tyrion explaining the history or rumors relating to whichever area of the castle they began in. He let the man lead him on as they walked and talked. By the time supper was served, it was usually accompanied by a spectacular view of the ocean, the eastern forests or Lannisport. Or in one of the numerous handsome halls.

Tonight led them to the gardens, which shocked Tiresias slightly. He had forgotten what a landscaped garden looked like. Though he much preferred the wild nature of the North, there was still an artistry here that he didn’t realized he had missed. And with his nose, the scents enclosed by these stone walls nearly overwhelmed him. In a good way. The smells of dinner played second fiddle tonight, as he was content to take in the flowers and other florae.

Tyrion seemed content to stay in the garden too. They lit braziers after the meal was taken away and a cyvasse board replaced it. With intricate pieces of ivory and jade.

Upon hearing that Tiresias had never played before, Tyrion insisted on teaching him. He wasn’t a particularly good instructor, as Tiresias could barely keep tracks of the pieces, how they moved, what they did. But that didn’t seem to matter. Their conversations usually overtook the game in priority.

Usually. Right now, Tyrion’s hand rubbed the base of his goblet in concentration, his eyebrows furrowed. Tiresias sipped his own goblet, sighing.

“You know how good I am at this, right?”

Tyrion didn’t answer and Tiresias laughed lightly. “You don’t need to waste that much time thinking up a defense against me.”

“The last Westerlander who underestimated you ended up dead,” mused Tyrion, before bringing out his trebuchet. He leaned back and drank.

“Westerlander?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Not much else in common with the late Clegane.”

“Well, lucky for you. My dagger is away from me,” murmured Tiresias, his eyes on the board. What the hell did one move against a trebuchet?

“Is that how you killed him?” Tyrion asked, his eyebrows raising as Tiresias moved a heavy horse forward. “Hmm…interesting counter…”

His eyes met Tiresias’. “Apologies. Am I allowed to inquire on that now?”

“Are we properly acquainted now, Lord Tyrion?”

“You haven’t appeared before me stupid drunk, but that would move us beyond mere acquaintance…yes…yes, I say we are.”

Fetching the pitcher, he refilled his goblet and gestured for Tiresias’. Sighing, the librarian relinquished his cup.

“What say you?” said Tyrion, his eyes on the flowing wine. He handed it back to Tiresias, who took a lean sip. Leaning back in his chair, he turned to the brazier, gazing into the dancing flames…

“I put a dagger through Ser Gregor’s eye,” he said quietly. “Danced around until I was able to do so. It wasn’t a glorious duel. I screamed in pain ‘fore it finished. It soon hurt to do even that. He grabbed my throat, bruised it. After I shoved the dagger up into his brain, I ended up kneeling on the floor, cradling my arm, whimpering in agony. Not really a noble or stoic end for either of us.”

He gazed at the brazier for a beat more before turning back to see Tyrion staring into his own goblet, considering his words. Finally the lord shrugged.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that. Songs tend to mull over unbecoming traits in the victors.”

He stared. “Is there a song already?”

Tyrion returned his focus to the board. “Not that I’ve heard. Not as much as a name yet.”

“A name?”

“Certainly. You didn’t think you would merely kill Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain Who Rides and not get a name out of it?”

“I have a name,” murmured Tiresias.

“How about Mountainfall? Mountainsbane?”

“How about Tiresias?”

Tyrion moved forward his trebuchet. “Mountainclimb? No, no, someone who climbs mountains. Who climbs mountains…?”

He clapped his hands. “Goats! Tiresias Mountaingoat!”

Tiresias didn’t return his smile. “You call me any other name but Tiresias and I start calling you Imp.”

Tyrion’s mouth lined, but he still kept his smile.

“Fine, fine,” he said, raising his hands. “But others will have names for you, Tiresias. And there will be songs. Perhaps they’ll welcome you back to Winterfell with one.”

Tiresias brought his spearman back. “I’m going to be connected to that giant shitheap for the rest of my life, am I?”

“Small price for having your life. Though if it’s any comfort, it’s not just whispers of the late Clegane that follow you in this castle.”

He stared at Tyrion. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard stories. The servants talk, the lords talk, soldiers especially talk. The ones that escorted you have spread some fascinating rumors.”

“And what rumors might those be?”

His host pushed forward an ivory elephant. “Are there any owls in the garden tonight, my friend? Hunting their vermin?”

The lift in his tone was unmistakable, but Tiresias refused to rise to it. He shrugged.

“More than likely. It’s a big enough garden.”

“Hmm…” said Tyrion through a draught. He swallowed and wiped his mouth. “Well, I don’t know much else. It’s already unbelievable; for our most fearsome knight to be slain by a librarian. Which made me laugh quite a bit, so thank you. But I’m afraid I don’t quite know what songs they’ll sing about you. They should be some riveting ballads. You won when you weren’t supposed to. You avenged a peasant girl. You royally pissed off my lord father. So again…thank you.”

“I don’t think anyone wants to be in another song where they’ve pissed off Tywin Lannister.”

Tyrion gave a humorless smirk. “Well…unlike the Reynes or the Tarbecks, you'll live to hear it.”

“Will I?” Tiresias asked quietly. "Will your father let me leave Casterly Rock alive?”

The questions came out of him before he could help it. However, he didn’t back down and returned Tyrion’s thoughtful glance with his own gaze.

The lord sipped his wine before answering.

“My darling sister, the queen…she called for your beheading a fortnight ago. Did you know that?”

Tiresias’ heart stopped, but he still managed to shake his head.

“No. No, I didn’t,” he responded numbly.

“Well, obviously, that didn’t happen. Nothing public. She merely wrote, suggesting my father right the insult. My father responded, explaining to her that one; your duel with Ser Gregor was sanctioned by the Seven as a trial-by-combat. Two; you partook of guest right. And three; you’re a servant of House Stark, employed by a man King Robert, her husband, considers a dear friend. She withdrew her suggestion shortly thereafter.”

“I’m sure your sister could find ways around all those reasons. Your father as well.”

Tyrion nodded. “I’m sure they could. If Cersei hadn’t heard that reasoning from my father, she would have pursued it. Avenged our dog’s death. You’re quite lucky you know. My sister only cowers before a select few in the Seven Kingdoms.

“As for Father…well, it’s too complicated to concern himself. He lost his fearsome bannerman, but the fearsome bannerman and his idiot men are the ones who demanded the trial in the first place. You may be not of Lord Stark’s blood, but you’re still under his protection and it’s too much of a mess to add your death to it. However…” He drained his cup and reached for the pitcher. “I wouldn’t want to be Lord Lydden anytime soon. Even with his witnesses and his Septon and his scrupulous record of that night…”

He glanced to Tiresias. “And you…he’ll keep an eye on you. You’ll be better off once you disappear up north into that library of yours. But you’ll no longer be a mere librarian. And not just in my father’s eyes.”

_No…no, in Roose’s eyes as well. _Tiresias drained his cup as well and held it out for a refill. _Congratulations, dickhead. Two masterminds behind the Red Wedding are now eyeing you in suspicion._

_Why not just visit the Twins again on your way up and piss off Walder Frey? Get the whole set._

His cup refilled, he brought it back to his lap, staring at the crimson fluid. It was beautiful in a way.

“But…” said Tyrion, leaning back, a huge grin spreading across his face. “It’s not all bad.”

He clapped his hands. “In fact, I have a marvelous idea! You should sail south on your way home. All the way around. Visit Dorne. I’m sure the news has spread there by now. Drop that name of yours and you won’t spend a single night alone in that kingdom.”

Tiresias snorted softly. “Perhaps. Then again, probably not the best idea.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have the stamina for such a venture. Besides…” He shrugged. “I didn't kill the Mountain for Elia Martell and her children. I did it to save an innkeeper...and then I spent the following sennights being hosted by House Lannister.”

He sipped the wine and blinked rather slowly. This would have to be his last cup of the evening.

“I’ve heard Prince Oberyn is rather volatile when it comes to the late Clegane…and to your family. There’s a good chance he hates me now for stealing his vengeance.”

“Hmm…” mused Tyrion. “Well, I can’t say either way. Never met the man.”

The temptation rose to reveal Oberyn’s visit to the Rock when he was a boy with Elia. When Cersei showed her new baby brother to the young Viper and relayed her wish to see him dead.

He stymied the thought. That bit of emotional devastation wouldn’t help him now.

“So…” Tyrion handled a rabble for a second before folding his hands again. “You didn’t kill Ser Gregor for Elia Martell and her children?”

Tiresias shook his head. “No,” he sighed.

“He hadn’t injured you or insulted you personally?”

“No.”

“So, then…why did you volunteer to fight? Was it really just for the innkeeper?”

_For him, for Layna…for Rosie. Wanting to make up for that._

“Is that really so hard to believe? Your father had the same suspicion.”

“Well, your victory was…rather inconceivable. To believe that your offer to fight was simply a vengeful whim for a stranger and his daughter…well, it calls for a more trusting deposition than mine. Or my father’s.”

Tryion sipped his wine and moved his rabble forward. It was a beginner’s move. A pittance for his opponent.

_Or a trap to lure me out._

He considered his pieces along with his answer. A full minute passed before he spoke.

“She served me and…” He stopped himself from mentioning Jory and Gendry, but he realized there was no point being secretive to that. Jory Cassel was there by his side during the duel. In front of witnesses.

He held out for Gendry though. ““She served me and my companion. She seemed…light. She was a child. I saw her afterwards when I was recovering at the inn. She wasn’t light anymore. But she was still a child. Hurt. Broken. And when her father came to Deep Den, driven to hysteria for what they did to her…I think I saw her broken before I saw her for real and…”

Recognizing the ramble, he collected himself before continuing.

“Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t thinking clearly when I volunteered?”

“It’s the simplest explanation,” said Tyrion quietly. “Certainly would explain the innkeeper. Why he barged into that hall.”

Tiresias leaned back and sipped his wine. “I don’t like highborns abusing the smallfolk for their amusement. Killing, thieving, bullying, raping.”

He met Tyrion’s eyes. “It’s what I said to your father. But perhaps he feels differently. Doesn’t mind if his soldiers rape a thirteen-year-old common girl.”

It wasn’t the time to mention Tysha, if there even was a time, but he came close. From the look on Tyrion’s face, he certainly made the connection. The cyvasse game laid forgotten before them. Finally the lord drained his cup, sighing as he brought it down.

“I see…”

“Then do you understand why I volunteered?”

Tyrion smirked slightly. “I suppose.”

Tiresias drank himself. “That’s what makes you different than your father.”

“Perhaps…though I do confess,” He reached for the pitcher again. “I still share his suspicions.”

Meeting that last sentiment with silence probably did more to increase Tyrion’s suspicions than placate them, but Tiresias couldn’t help it. He sipped and placed the goblet down, his eyes settling on the red wine therein.

“Would you like to hear a joke?”

Tiresias looked up to the lord. “A joke?”

Tyrion shrugged. “You seemed tired and dour. And I would hate to end this evening on such a melancholic note.”

He continued to stare at Tyrion for a beat, before sighing.

“All right.”

Tyrion took a drink before clearing his throat.

“I once brought a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel. The madam approached me and said ‘How may we service you?’ I said ‘I need a woman to lay with, madam, for mine has left me, you see.’

“‘Whatever for?’ said the madam. ‘And why do you have a honeycomb and a mule?’

“‘Well, madam, my woman found a genie in a bottle and he granted her three wishes. She first wished for a house fit for a queen, so he gave her this honeycomb. She then wished to have the finest ass in all the land, so the genie gave her this damn donkey.’

“‘And the third wish?’ asked the madam. ‘What did she want with the third wish?’

“‘Well madam…she went and asked for my cock to hang down past my knee.’

“‘Oh…that’s not so bad, is it?’

“‘Not so bad? Madam, I used to be six foot three!’”

Tiresias stared for a solid few seconds before he started to laugh. He laughed softly, but he couldn’t stop. Tyrion joined him, delighted in his success and they laughed together under the brazier’s light.

Finally, Tiresias collected himself and raised his goblet, still grinning as he drank. Tyrion sipped his wine as well.

“See?” he said. “How do you feel now?”

Tiresias sighed his final chortle. “Relieved.”

“Relieved?”

“Never heard the end of that joke. Only the beginning.”

Tyrion looked a little disappointed and his suspicion slightly returned. “Where did you hear it? I swore I invented that one.”

Before the trial, Tiresias would have panicked at what he just let slipped. Now, in the lion’s den, he merely shrugged as he set his wine down.

_Probably not the best sign, mate._

“In the Vale. Sailor telling it was drowned out by the wind. You told it better.”

* * *

Tiresias sipped his water cautiously. The servant had placed his utensils and goblet on his left side. His herbed lamb arrived already cut for him. Asides from the stifling fire, it would have been a very comfortable dinner.

At least, it would have, if not for the company. Tywin Lannister sat across from him in silence, his eyes on his own meal. He had received the invitation an hour beforehand. Well, as much as it could be called an invitation. The nameless manservant from his first night approached him in the library and announced that he would join Lord Tywin for dinner. He walked away before Tiresias could recover enough to inquire why.

So far, the Lord of Casterly Rock hadn’t yielded any clues. He greeted him when he arrived and that was the extent of the conversation so far. Based on the man’s energy, it was down to the long-tried strategy of waiting for the other to speak.

However, Tiresias was in no mood to play. He finished his lamb before dabbing his mouth with the napkin.

“So, Lord Tywin, to what do I owe the pleasure of this invitation?”

His host waited to swallow, setting his knife and fork down before speaking.

“How goes your recovery?”

Tiresias eyed his arm, still in the splint. He hadn’t felt any pain for the past sennight. His fingers in that hand were working again. He was actually able to write. Carefully and only for an hour, but still…

“It’s going well, my Lord. According to Maester Creylen, it should only be a sennight until I can take this splint off. After another fortnight for the arm to strengthen, I will be deemed well enough to travel.”

“Quite fortuitous,” said Tywin. He sipped his water. “You’ve been spending a significant amount of your recovery with my son.”

Using his bread to soak up the herbed butter, Tiresias nodded. “I have.”

“You needn’t indulge my son, Tiresias. I can’t imagine inebriation is suitable for your recovery.”

Tiresias breathed before answering. “Lord Tyrion has been very sensitive to my injury, my lord. I haven’t been drunk yet in this place.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. I actually rather enjoy his company, my Lord. Your son is courteous, clever and quite amiable.” He bit off a small bit of the soaked bread. “You’re very lucky. To have such an heir as him.”

Counting to three before looking back up, he saw Tywin’s jaw still set. Though the Lord was making an admirable effort to souse his temper.

Indeed, when he spoke, his voice was even.

“Tyrion is not my heir,” he stated quietly.

Swallowing the bread, Tiresias gave a confused frown. “Forgive me, my lord. I must be confused. I had believed that Ser Jaime joined the Kingsguard and forsworn his inheritance. That leaves only…”

“When he is ready, he will take a hold suiting his position.” Tywin met his frown with his fierce eyes. “But that position is not, nor shall it ever be, Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Tywin held the stare and Tiresias decided to fold.

“I see,” he said, going back to his meal.

He tried racking his brains for the past month what he even wanted from Tywin Lannister. What he should say. What path should he nudge him on? If he was even capable of doing so.

And ultimately, his mind came to a blank. He simply wanted to leave the Westerlands alive. That meant not pissing off the Warden of the West. Even if it also meant not standing up for Tyrion explicitly.

_Oh Tywin…you and your son would have been such a force to be reckoned with. If only you had eyes in the present and not the thousand year legacy you dream of…_

“You said you arrived in Westeros five years ago, yes?” asked Tywin, leaning back into his chair.

Tiresias swallowed some roasted potato. “Five and a half, more like, my Lord. I’ve been working at Winterfell for five.”

“How did you come to be the librarian at Winterfell?”

It almost became a repeat of his dinner at the Dreadfort. He repeated his story of befriending a crannogman in Pentos. The recommendation from Lord Reed. Along with a dozen other details that wouldn’t interest the Warden. Tywin fixed him with a stare unlike Lord Bolton’s. While Roose’s gaze was soft and sensitive to every detail of the story, Tywin’s eyes bored into him. Challenging him to stick to the story. To tell the truth.

Tiresias breathed easy when he told it. Tywin was someone who stuck to the details of the highborn and treated the smallfolk as a monolith.

_He’s never met a stonemason and he’s probably never bothered himself with the crannogmen of the Neck._

Soon his brief recounting was finished and Tywin reached for his goblet.

“If you and your family were nomads, how did your father support you?” he asked, taking a sip.

“We lived off the land, my Lord. Not the most stable upbringing, as you can imagine. We did hunt and traded the furs in the Free Cities we came across. We sang once in a while for pittance. But it was a poor existence.”

“Are they alive?”

Tiresias shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “No, my family’s dead, my Lord. They all died when I was about thirteen.”

The Old Lion set his cup down, but he didn’t offer any condolences. Tiresias didn’t know whether he respected him more or less for that. He certainly wouldn’t have meant them.

“How did you learn to read? Whilst living as a vagabond?”

He took a deep breath. “My mother taught me. If you must know.”

“And how did she learn?”

Tiresias hoped this new detail wouldn’t come back to bite him.

“She refused to say. But I have my suspicions,” he said, lowering his eyes.

The fire crackled for a few seconds. Though Tywin remained silent, he could feel his challenging gaze upon him. He raised his head and answered it.

“We never went south to Volantis. And even when we entered the other Free Cities, my mother always remained outside the gates with our people. She covered her face and she was never comfortable until she was well away.”

He raised a finger and brought it to his cheek. “She had a scar here. Quite a large one. Like she'd removed some skin. She had it as long as I could remember.”

“Your mother was a slave.”

There was no pity in Tywin’s eyes, his voice was pragmatic as it ever was.

Tiresias shrugged. “She never said. I never asked. I never asked how she learned. Perhaps she served a wealthy merchant’s daughter, and the girl thought it would be fun to play tutor to a slave. Maybe she overheard lessons, bit by bit. Maybe her former master thought she was intelligent and taught her himself, thinking he wouldn’t have to pay for a bookkeeper.”

He took a sip of his own wine. “It’s something I’ve wondered for many years. Sometimes I regret not asking her. I try not to. It's lost to me and regret won't change that. All I know is one night by the fire, my mother took out a small tome and began to read to me, tracing her finger along the words. Night after night. And before she died, I could read better than her.”

Making his eyes go soft whenever he lied was second nature to him by now. The story could be as long or as short as he wished. With any amount of detail. As long as he told it sincerely and succinctly.

_And if he can’t verify it, if he even can, it will do until I’m out of the Westerlands._

A small tinge of guilt bubbled up in him. Adopting a slave narrative for his own background, but it did place him in the deepest pits of obscurity. No one could account for it.

He returned to his meal and he heard Tywin do the same. Though he wasn’t done with his questions.

“And after your people perished?” he heard Tywin ask, in between bites. “What did you do then?”

“I stayed out in the wild for a couple years.” He breathed to fortify himself. “It was safer than being a young boy alone in a city, but eventually I made my way to Lorath. Became a dockworker for a year or so. Eventually I proved I could read and became a trade archivist for a velvet merchant. That worked for a few years until he died. It took nearly a year after, but I managed to save enough coin to buy passage to Pentos. I was there for a few years, working here and there. Until finally I met my friend from the Neck. He told me more of Westeros, I sailed here…”

He lowered his fork and leaned back. “And that was that.”

Tywin gave him the briefest of glances before finishing off his dinner. After swallowing the last bite, he dabbed his mouth with his napkin and deposited it onto the table. He had barely leaned back against his own chair when the servant came to retrieve his plate.

“Do you know how to drive a wagon, Tiresias?”

He nodded, trying not to question the change in subject. “I do, my Lord.”

“Will your horse deign to be hitched?”

Tiresias met the lord’s eye. “Why would she need to be hitched?”

Tywin rapped the table lightly. “When you depart from Casterly Rock, you will be taking the eleven volumes of Old Tongue we have in the library. They will need adequate transport. I doubt your mare can carry them all in a satchel.”

The crackle of the hearth filled the chamber as they regarded each other, Tiresias trying some way to phrase his burning question without sounding caught off-guard. The Old Lion seemed at ease, unhurried but he sensed his impatience. And so Tiresias waited.

Finally, Tywin reached for his goblet. “My son, whom you seem to have so much admiration for, has further educated me on your project back at Winterfell. Your work in curating the tomes of the Old Tongue throughout the North. And the adjoining kingdoms; the Riverlands and the Vale.”

Tiresias nodded numbly. “We’ve talked at some length about that.”

“Well, the tomes are doing no good here in the Westerlands. You will transport them to Winterfell. Store them. Fill up some of the empty space on your shelves.”

He sipped his wine. Tiresias tried to look this gift horse in the mouth as gently as he could.

“That’s quite generous of you, my Lord.” He tapped his own goblet, but didn’t lift it. “May I ask what you require in return?”

“Nothing,” Tywin said lightly…well, as lightly as he could manage. “It’s a donation. It’s why you came to Casterly Rock of your own accord. It’s why you stayed. You needed to recover enough to drive a wagon.”

Tiresias exhaled through his nose. “Of my own accord?”

“It’s what you’ll say.” The demand was softly spoken. “Is that too high a price?”

Tiresias took only a second before shaking his head. “No, I should say not.”

“Then it’s agreed.” Tywin stood, his chair scrapping against the stone. “You’ll meet the stablemaster tomorrow. He’ll find you a suitable wagon to take.”

Tiresias remained seated. “As I said, very generous of you, my Lord,” he heard himself say. “I’ll write up a receipt for the tomes.”

“If you insist,” Tywin stated curtly. The lord made to turn, but stopped himself.

"One more thing," he said. "It slipped my mind the first time we talked."

That was a lie. Tiresias thought the halt looked too practiced. Nevertheless he waited politely.

"Lord Lydden wrote of your choice of weapon. How you fashioned a copper end to your spear and used it to disorient Ser Gregor. Striking his helm."

Tiresias nodded. "Aye."

"You stated you barely knew of Ser Gregor's reputation before you volunteered to fight him. How did you know he was so sensitive of hearing?"

Tiresias only allowed a second of hesitation before he answered.

"Outside of Deep Den, where I was camping, I sang a song. Another knight warned me to stop. That Ser Gregor was arriving and he despised singing. The knight went on to tell stories of Ser Gregor hating other loud noises, strangling a minstrel, a man who snored..."

What was the phrase again? The truth will set you free?

More helpful yet, a version of the truth will set you free.

"I've heard rumors of giant men being besieged by headaches. The price of towering above others. When Clegane arrived and I saw how truly massive he was, I made the connection. And so, when I volunteered with so few advantages on my end, I decided to take a chance and exploit that weakness."

He didn't offer any more explanation. It was a mistake to ramble on when one was done speaking.

Tywin's face was impassive. He couldn't see how the story settled with the Old Lion.

_Probably not well. After all, if I saw how practiced his question was, could he see also the practice in my answer?_

He wouldn't know tonight or probably before he left the Rock. If he could read Lord Tywin correctly, the topic was closed.

"The wagons are located in the third stable, in the northern bailey," he rumbled. "I'm certain my son could show you the way in the morning"

With further ado, Tywin turned on his heel and strode out of the dining room. The servant closed the door after him, standing back to attention.

He sat there for a few more minutes before getting up to head back to his own quarters. With Tywin's attempt to catch him in a lie, he briefly forgot that he now had eleven tomes to transport back to Winterfell, that he came to Casterly Rock on his own for the request. As was the story now.

Coming to the door, he paused and looked back at the servant, looking determinedly at the other wall.

“Well, you heard it first, I guess,” he said. The servant’s eyes went to him. “I traveled here of my own accord. Let no one say anything different, eh?”

The servant blinked at him a few times before going back to his spot on the wall. Tiresias sighed and left the hall. He changed his mind about going to bed. A map was in the library and he had a new date of arrival to estimate. It would take longer for him to reach Winterfell, strapping a wagon to his horse.

He hoped the poor animal would forgive him. 

* * *

Tiresias sat, his impatience mounting as Maester Creylen tended to his arm. The whole day before had passed more slowly than any other in the Rock. Finally, this evening, his right arm would be his again.

Not entirely though. Creylen warned him several times that he should avoid strenuous activity for a fortnight afterwards. He couldn’t head directly to the archery range to practice, dive off the cliffs into the sea or even do a single push-up and begin to rebuild his strength. He had to be gentle still.

However, that didn’t dampen his spirits as Creylen unwrapped the splint. The maester tried to be gentle, but Tiresias didn’t mind. All aches stopped a fortnight ago and he felt no discomfort as the splint was removed. Creylen took his arm, grasping it lightly and running his fingers along it. The sensation almost tickled him.

After a series of tests involving bending his fingers and rotating his wrist without pain, Creylen nodded.

“Everything seems to have healed well, Tiresias,” he murmured softly before releasing the limb. “Congratulations. You have your arm back.”

“Thank you, Maester,” Tiresias said, his voice catching before he could help it. He swallowed. “I mean it, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said the maester mildly. “But, remember…”

“No strenuous activity.”

“For how long?”

“A fortnight.”

“That’s right.” Creylen deposited the wraps in the laundry basket. “I’d also recommend a bath tonight. That arm needs a proper scrub. But gently so.”

Tiresias took his advice. He didn’t do so often over his time at the Rock, but tonight he requested a bath in his chambers. He soaped his arm thrice over, delighted at the simple pleasure of being able to actually submerge his arm in the water.

Standing by the window afterwards, he stood naked by the window, feeling the sea breeze. He lifted his arm and feel a coolness he had missed for months. The wind passed along, lifting the hairs on his arm. It was pure bliss. He even forgot where he was for a moment.

But it did come back. He was still in the lion's den, under close scrutiny.

_Just a fortnight more, mate. Rest easy but keep alert. Just a little longer in this place._

He took a parting glance at Lannisport before going to bed. Tempted as he was to jump into the sheets, he lowered himself slowly onto the mattress with his left arm. No need to tempt fate now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, readers. Thank you so much for your kudos and comments last chapter!
> 
> Full disclosure: the solution for the riddle is not mine. I have no idea where it came. A friend passed it along and I liked it. So here it is.
> 
> Ch. 34 should be released next Tuesday. I have 3 more chapters left before I go into another writing hiatus. Fair warning.
> 
> Be safe. Wear a mask. Beware the smoke if you live on the West Coast and please vote!


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

Tiresias secured the tomes in the trunk, before draping it with burlap. It may have been summer, but as he moved through the Riverlands and into the North, a quick rain would ruin the precious pages.

The North…his hands paused as he considered that. It had been some time since he was home. He almost didn’t want to think about it. Riding straight to Winterfell, fully intending not to get sidetracked. Not that he expected to. What delays could he possibly encounter on his way?

Then again, he never meant to go to King’s Landing, to the Westerlands and onto Casterly Rock. Perhaps he would never return, forever distracted...

Shaking his head, he tied the burlap down. There was no one else to return these tomes. What other excursion could he possibly have after this? When would he next come down south? What could take him out of the North again so soon?

_Who knows? You’ve changed quite a bit with your actions down here, mate. You’re no longer anonymous. The powers that be might really start to dig their claws in._

He returned to his room, arms swinging freely. It hadn’t yet been a fortnight since the splint was removed and he still savored having his arm back. He was lucky, he knew that. Damn lucky. If that maester hadn’t been there in Deep Den…

Well, he was. And because of it, Tiresias was able to use both of his arms to pack his belongings. He wasn’t leaving until the day after tomorrow but he couldn’t wait. Even with as little as he had to pack. It felt better to get it done.

Even the sobering distance to Winterfell couldn’t douse his excitement. He had calculated the trek, moving his fingers along the map in the library. It was nearly eighteen hundred miles of wagon travel to the Stark homestead. If he made the journey in two months, he’d consider himself lucky.

Maybe that’s why he packed early. Perhaps he could trick himself into believing he was closer to Winterfell if he was all ready to go home. To the Starks. To the library and the cool winds. To Mal…

There was a knock on the door, tearing his thoughts away from a pair of brown eyes.

“Come in,” he called, turning. Tyrion entered the room. “Lord Tyrion.”

“Tiresias, my friend with two good hands. Packing already?”

Tyrion came to a halt besides him. His clothes were different, with a traveling cape and his coin pouch was considerably larger.

Tiresias turned back to his rucksack and strapped it shut.

“Aye. Already done though. Didn’t carry much in. Won’t be the case when I leave though. I have your father to thank for that.” He eyed Tyrion. “And you too, I suppose?”

“I suggested to my dear father that they would make a good parting gift…and give some credence to the tale that you were invited and didn’t come here under any compulsion.”

“It’s no tale, my lord,” said Tiresias lightly. “It’s what happened. So sayeth Lord Tywin.”

Tyrion smirked. “Of course. I do hope it is enough though.”

He shrugged. “Well, I won’t lie. They will slow me down. The wagon adds at least a fortnight to my journey.” He sighed. “But it is very generous. I’m very pleased and I look forward to digging into them further when I’m back at Winterfell. So thank you. I mean it, Tyrion. Thank you.”

Tyrion waved that away. “They were abandoned for generations. I’m glad they’ll find fresh eyes up north.”

Tiresias crossed to the dresser and placed his rucksack neatly beside it. With that, he was all set to leave in two days time.

He turned back to his host. “So…how can I help you, my lord? Can’t imagine you came here to watch me finish packing.”

“Do you have to shit?”

Tiresias blinked. “‘Cuse me?”

“We’re leaving. And though it’s a short ride, the latrines aren’t nearly as clean as they are here. So I ask again, do you have…”

“No,” Tiresias cut across him, staring at Tyrion. “I don’t have to, I mean…where are we going?”

Tyrion clapped his arm. “Lannisport.”

Tiresias felt his face dull. Impromptu trips had that effect on him. “Why?”

“Why?” Tyrion crossed the food, gesturing out the window. “Why…because of all the splendid things that are in Lannisport. Boats, food, wine, women. But that…”

He pointed a finger at Tiresias. “That is the wrong question, my friend. The real question is: who isn’t in Lannisport?”

There was such a glee in Tyrion’s eyes.

Tiresias sighed. “Your father.”

“That’s right! You’re very good at this.” He patted Tiresias arm again and walked back to the door. “Right then, come on! Only delay I’ll allow you is to fetch your cloak. Other than that…”

Tyrion paused when he realized that Tiresias wasn’t following him. He turned to see the librarian standing stock still. He sighed.

“Tiresias, it will be fun. Come on, you’ve been stuck in the Rock for a month and a half!”

Tiresias shrugged. “Pretty large place to be stuck.”

The dwarf walked back to him. “The library will be here tomorrow when you return. So will my father and everything else. Come on, when will you ever see Lannisport again?”

_If I’m lucky enough to even leave the Westerlands..._

Tiresias didn’t voice that thought. But it did inspire some other considerations. He didn’t truly know his future or the status of his freedom. Might as well take what liberties he could. When he could.

He grinned and nodded.

“Excellent,” said Tyrion, returning his grin. They set off along the corridor. “If we get there soon, perhaps we could go out sailing for an hour or two. Come back to shore for an early dinner, prepare ourselves for the evening. Have you tried plum spirits?”

Tyrion sprouted ideas for the rest of the walk to the stables. After they mounted and proceeded out of the Rock with his guard in tow, it morphed into tales of Lannisport itself. How it was the largest settlement in the Westerlands; where the Goldroad, the Riverroad and the Oceanroad all met. Upon a subtle inquiry from Tiresias, or at least he hoped subtle, he spoke of the Greyjoy attack. How it was actually the third time the Iron Islands had burned Lannisport; though they’ve raided dozens of times before. However not during Tywin’s rule.

On a lighter note, he spoke of King Loreon Lannister the Fifth, who snuck down to Lannisport after dark in disguise. In women’s clothing, to wander the docks as a whore.

Tiresias turned to Tyrion as they rode. “Is that true?”

“Apparently so. He became known as Queen Lorea.”

As much as he wanted to, Tiresias couldn’t resist. “Did he make any coin?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“What, as a whore?” Tyrion shrugged. “Well, I can’t speak for how pretty he was.”

He turned and met Tiresia’s eyes.

“But, I suppose a common man would pay well to have a King’s cunt for a night.”

He spoke blithely enough. Tiresias turned back to the road. “I can’t imagine your father holding onto that bit of family history.”

Tyrion laughed. “Well, I’m not my father. I hold no contempt in my heart for Queen Lorea and I’m not ashamed to be her descendant. After all, ofttimes I hold whores in higher esteem than kings.”

They came onto the Goldroad and quickly entered the gates of Lannisport. The taste of sea salt only intensified as they rode through the town and onto the harbor.

After depositing their mounts at the harborside stables, Tyrion led them to the piers. Tiresias followed closely with the guards, letting his arm swing free. He rolled his sleeves up and felt the breeze brush across his arm hair.

He couldn’t help grinning. God, he missed having his arm.

“Where are we going?” he called after Tyrion, as they descended the piers.

“Where do people usually go when they walk onto a dock?” Tyrion called back, not looking back. “We need to pass the day. The girls aren’t awake yet.”

Tiresias didn’t ask for clarification. He didn’t need it. It was a headache for later. For now, Tyrion’s first item on his itinerary was a sail. An old man with a worn, trusty dinghy waved and bowed to Tyrion, greeting him with some familiarity.

Twenty minutes later, they were lazily floating outside the harbor, Tyrion, his guards and him. They stayed out of range of the merchant ships that came in and out. Tiresias sat on the bow, savoring the wind. He couldn’t get enough of it. If he closed his eyes, he could remember how it felt sailing with Clark’s father.

_Clark’s father…why did I think it like that…_

Thankfully that thought was interrupted by lunch. The guards dropped a basket they’ve been carrying from the Rock. It had enough cheese, fresh bread and sausage to feed a crew twice their size. Tyrion commanded the guards to relax as he poured the wine.

“Come now, who would attack me now?” He gestured to the open water before filling Tiresias’ cup. It was a good point, though Tiresias did remember Lord Tyrion being assaulted halfway across the world in another sailing vessel.

_There’s no stone men here though._

They all ate merrily. Being on the water increased a man’s appetite. Or at least, being on a leisure cruise. Though, Tyrion did warn him not to eat too much.

When asked why, he merely clasped Tiresias’ shoulder. “It’s a surprise. I’ll only say this…you’ll have jewels of the sea tonight.”

They stayed out on the water for a few more hours, pissing off the side whenever the wine flowed too freely. Tiresias stuck to his waterskin mostly. However, Tyrion didn’t seem too affected. By the time, the dinghy had docked again in the early evening, they had only eaten a third of their food. The guards didn’t pick up the remains however. Tyrion instructed them to leave it for the captain and his family.

The old captain thanked Tyrion profusely as he shook the lord’s hand. Tiresias caught the glint of gold pass between them before they proceeded back. He was mildly impressed that Tyrion didn’t stumble as they walked back up the pier. He couldn’t say the same for the guards, though he supposed they had some time to sober up before they rode back to Casterly Rock.

They did continue to keep a close watch though as Tyrion led Tiresias to their next adventure. They walked for all of five hundred feet before Tyrion turned into an establishment on the waterfront. Frying oils, spices and salts hit his nose and his eyes watered.

“And this?” he asked, blinking away some tears, following the lord to an empty table.

Tyrion gestured for him to sit, their open window facing the harbor. He looked over the side to see the water.

“These, my friend,” said Tyrion as a serving girl set down a platter before them. “…are the jewels of the sea.”

He gazed down to see a dozen raw oysters. A laugh escaped from him before he could help it.

“What?” asked Tyrion.

“Do you even need these?” His shoulders shook with laughter. Maybe the wine had affected him more than he realized.

Tyrion joined in with his own laughter. “Of course, I do! I’m only human and I have drunk quite a bit of wine. I need all the help I can get!”

He picked up an oyster. “Come now. You must prepare yourself. The girls are readying themselves as we speak.”

Not bothering to protest the sentiment yet, Tiresias picked up an oyster warily. Even in his old world, he was hesitant to consume them. If he got a parasite in Westeros, he was due for some misery.

“Have you never slurped an oyster before?” asked Tyrion.

The shell was cool to the touch. He sniffed it covertly. Smelled fine actually. Smelled like the ocean breeze they had enjoyed for hours beforehand…

_Fuck it._

He slurped the oyster, tossing the shell down.

“That’s the spirit,” cheered Tyrion, before slurping his own shell. They worked their way around the dozen. After washing down the salty delicacies with a dry red wine that reminded Tiresias of sherry, the serving girl brought them prawn and salmon pie, with fresh bread to soak up the fish stock afterwards.

Afterwards they sat back and digested the food with another cup of wine…well, Tyrion was on his fourth cup. Tiresias merely sipped his. The serving girl returned for payment and he reached for his coin.

“Take your fucking hand off your purse,” murmured Tyrion, pushing himself off the wall and reaching for his own coin pouch.

Tiresias stared. “My lord, I’ve been your guest for near a month and a half. I’m sure I’ve eaten more than my worth. Let me…”

“You are still my guest,” Tyrion stated, passing coins to the girl before standing. “And as such…you spending any of your own coin is an insult to me. And to House Lannister.”

He spoke pompously. With his hand on the table for balance, he leaned toward Tiresias, who remained seated.

“Do you wish to insult House Lannister?” he muttered.

Tiresias shrugged, meeting his eyes. “Depends on the Lannister.”

Tyrion considered this, before nodding. “Fair point. Nevertheless, you will not touch your purse until you’re riding away from the Rock. Agreed?”

_Well, don’t twist my arm. _“Agreed.”

His face twisting into a grin, Tyrion turned, calling as he walked away. “Then, come! Our final destination awaits.”

Tiresias stood, sighing to himself. He didn’t know if he found it amusing that Tyrion spoke so obliquely of this destination. As though the man hadn’t been dropping hard hints and blatant admissions all day.

And sure enough, against the setting sun, he proceeded with Tyrion and his guard toward the brothel. He heard the laughter and smelled the sex before they turned the corner into a cul-de-sac that faced the sea. A large house stood at the end with a rooftop balcony.

He turned to Tyrion. “You do realize that I was prescribed no strenuous activity by Maester Creylen?”

“If Maester Creylen prescribes fucking as a strenuous activity, he has a limited imagination.” He clapped Tiresias on the arm. “Come on, no man’s ever injured his arm having his cock sucked. And if it gets too much, go to the roof. I wrote ahead and had delicacies and refreshments ordered for us in-between.”

Further protests died on Tiresias’ tongue as they entered the establishment, with two of the guards remaining outside. The madam greeted Tyrion with more familiarity than the dinghy captain or the serving maid. She laughed as Tyrion kissed her offered hand, turning her gaze toward Tiresias.

“And hello there. Who’s your handsome friend, m’lord?”

Tyrion gestured to him, grinning. “A warrior of great renown!”

“Tyrion…” he muttered, almost growling.

Tyrion raised his arms. “Fine, fine…” he said, turning back to the madam. “Just a quiet scholar. Very shy. Best find a gentle one for him.”

She smiled and approached him. “I’m sure we have a woman who’d suit you fine, love. Warrior and scholar both.”

Linking her arm through his, she led them to the parlor, the two remaining guards taking up posts at opposite ends. Tiresias focused on not wrinkling his nose at all the perfumes. It seemed to drip off the walls. He blinked and Tyrion was gone, disappearing quickly into a room under a mess of silk and skin.

He blinked again to feel another arm replace the madams. Tiresias turned to see a lovely girl with sun-kissed skin and a very practiced smile. She didn’t say a word and he allowed her to lead him up the stairs. As she came to the second floor though, he gently extracted his arm from her and made to continue onto the roof.

“My lord.” He paused, turning back to see her. She stood in the corridor, still with that smile. “My room’s down this way.”

He scratched his ear. “Did you already receive your coin, miss?”

“I did.”

“Then consider it the easiest coin you ever made your whole life.” He gestured toward the stairs. “I’m going to enjoy the view.”

She came toward him. “Are you sure, my lord? The view will still be there when we’re done.”

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

He made to turn again when he felt her gentle hand on his arm, stilling him.

Her tone lowered. “Are you not interested in girls, my Lord?”

There was no judgment in her tone, Tiresias had to give her that. Still, he remained mum. Over his entire stay at Casterly Rock, he hadn’t mentioned Mal to anyone. He had no desire to bring attention to her. And though this girl seemed sweet, he didn’t want it coming back to Tyrion. Then possibly to Tywin.

“If you’re not,” she continued to speak softly. “There’s a lad here. Very sweet and handsome. He’s…”

“It’s not that,” said Tiresias. “I’m just tired and…”

He sighed, running his fingers over his short hair.

“What?” asked the girl.

“The view might be there still, but I’ll be gone soon. Might be a long time before I see the sea again. I’ll still have a fair chance to see pretty young women, though…” He nodded to her, unable to help his small grin. “None as pretty as you, I’m sure.”

The girl snorted, but she still smiled and let go of his arm. Nodding politely, he turned and proceeded up the stairs.

The rooftop provided a lovely view of the harbor, along with two lounge chairs and a table in-between stocked with a covered tray and a few pitchers. He walked past the refreshments to the railing and stared out. Not quite the grand sweep from his room in the Rock, but somehow he preferred this view. From here, Lannisport reminded him of another town from his previous life. He struggled to remember the name as the sun sank into the west.

His breaths synchronized with the waves crashing gently into the seawall. He proceeded to the lounge chair A great peace settled in him and he closed his eyes, lying on the lounge. Even the sounds of the whorehouse below faded for him.

It couldn’t have been much later when he opened his eyes. The sky was purple in the dusk. Rousing himself, he lit a brazier and lifted the tray besides him. Plates of dates, olives, grapes and almonds greeted him. Along with a few pitchers. Passing over the wine, he poured himself a goblet of water with lemon squeeze and drank deeply.

It tasted as fresh as it did in Bodrum.

Now the name rose from his memory with no effort. Bodrum. That was the sea town in Turkey…though Clark got there by bus. Not by horse.

He laughed at the thought. _That would have been quite a ride._

His musings were interrupted by a set of footsteps coming up the stairs and onto the deck. The movement was slightly staggered, intoxicated. He refilled his cup and raised it as Tyrion fell onto the lounge beside him. The lord took a moment to situate himself before peering over to his guest.

“Have you been up here the whole time?”

Tireisas answered with a sip.

Tyrion sighed. “Honestly, my friend…I go to such trouble to bring you to this delightful place…and you merely want…you merely want to gaze out upon the sea…”

“Sorry to make you suffer,” Tiresias gibed, before sighing himself. “It’s a lovely sea. The North has whores, like everywhere else. But there’s no sea in Winterfell. I’ll miss this more than anything when I leave.”

He turned to Tyrion. “Besides they seem to have their arms full with you. Are you quite sated?”

Tyrion stretched out. He had finally hit his limit and was going over. His eyes glazed over, he managed to reach the pitcher and helped himself to the wine there.

“Not quite,” he mumbled. “I’m only here to regain my strength…catch my breath.” He sipped and his sigh after came out as a hiss. “Though, I admit…I believe I drank too much. We may have to sleep here tonight…would that offend you?

Tiresias shrugged. “I’ve had worse accommodations.”

Tyrion waved his goblet toward him and Tiresias met it with a clink. They didn’t toast, just drank silently.

“And like I said, it’s a lovely view here anyway,” said Tiresias.

“Yes…” said Tyrion, as he stepped off the lounge. He stomped over the table and popped a date in his mouth. His eyes went to the north.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” he mumbled with his mouth full of fruit, gesturing with his wine.

Tiresias followed his gesture. The outline of Casterly Rock was quite visible, despite the increasing darkness. Torchlight dotted the castle. One didn’t need Tiresias’ sight to make it out.

_Not quite the lion in shape…still a damn impressive castle._

He chewed an almond. “I told your father you would make an excellent Warden someday.”

A brief silence filled the rooftop, as Tyrion met his eyes. Then he burst into laughter. Tiresias didn’t return it.

“Well,” said Tyrion, wiping his eyes. “I’m surprised you’re still here. My father’s had men thrown out for saying less…however, that was very kind of you. And I…I thank you.”

He stumbled back to the lounge and sat down, his eyes coming back to the distant castle. Staring, he went back into silence.

Tiresias gave him a few beats before speaking. “What are you doing?”

“Getting one last look.” He turned to Tiresias, smiling forlornly. “Your eminent departure had inspired my own. I already intended...to leave for King’s Landing one day. Now…I plan to depart the same morning as you.”

“You sure about that?” Tiresias took a sip of his lemon-water. “It smells better here than it does in King’s Landing.”

“My father is here,” Tyrion murmured, his gaze still on the Rock. It remained until he blithely shrugged and tipped his goblet upwards.

“Though, I suppose…if he had his way…” He refilled his goblet. “He…would be in King’s Landing now. Perched in the Hand’s tower. He was once the Hand of the King…did you know that?”

“To Aerys Targaryen,” Tiresias said softly, his eyes on his cup. “For how long? Twenty years?”

“Nineteen,” responded Tyrion, grinning slightly. “Doesn’t sound quite as poetic as twenty, does it?”

“Still a respectable number.”

“Indeed. Well, in any case…he would relish going back. Still able to climb the tower steps. Age hasn’t sapped his strength. He would occupy the Tower. He’d dismiss my brother…send Jaime back here to be Warden…”

“And you would go to the Wall.” Tiresias waited a beat before meeting Tyrion’s eyes. “If he had his way.”

The lord’s smile had disappeared, but he didn’t look angry. He pondered the thought for a moment before shrugging. “Perhaps…but I would have to do something very naughty. Though…it would protect me from Joffrey, when that repulsive little shit mounts the Iron Throne.”

He sat back on the lounge, staring at Tiresias. “Tell me, how are the girls in the North?”

_They have brown eyes and a testing patience…_

Tiresias shrugged. “Warm. Tough. But the Night’s Watch doesn’t allow women.”

“Well then, I shall have to visit and taste them myself before it’s too late…before my father throws me in black. I could visit you in Winterfell! I’m sure there’s a brothel nearby…able to warm those killing, scholarly hands of yours.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “If you come up, I’ll point you in the right direction and wish you a merry time.” Grinning, he raised his cup.

Tyrion frowned dramatically. “You wouldn’t join me?”

Tiresias didn’t deign to answer that, opting instead to pop an olive in his mouth. Sounds of a sea town filled the air; waves, the breeze, a song from a tavern nearby…even over the low moans from below, cicadas sang, celebrating the encroaching darkness.

He turned back to spit out the pit, and saw Tyrion was continuing to stare. Finally the lord jumped up and grabbed the lounge chair.

“Well,” he said, pulling the chair closer to the table. “You will join me in this.”

“What you do mean?” asked Tiresias warily.

“I’m making good on a promise.” Tyrion grabbed his goblet and refilled it. “We've only drunk together...I told you we would get drunk together. A Lannister always pays his debts.”

“No.”

“Yes,” said Tyrion, some semblance of sobriety returning to his eyes. “Your arm is healed. You can manage a drunken stumble…we’ll sleep here, have the whole of tomorrow to recover. Your travel will not be impeded and I…will have truly gotten to know my new friend. Now pour out that lemon piss and let me give you a real drink.”

Tyrion raised the pitcher but Tiresias withheld his cup, trying to match the lord in his drunken determination.

_Your rule, Tiresias. You can’t let anything slip._ _It’s too risky._

Lowering the pitcher, but only slightly, Tyrion grinned.

“How about a game then? To truly get to know one other?”

Tiresias could feel his heartbeat in his ears.

_If you’re about to say what I think you’re going to say, the gods must have a great sense of humor…_

“It’s a drinking game. A marvelous game. Here’s how it works. I look into your soul…or your eyes if you prefer and I make a statement about your past. If I’m right, you drink. If I’m wrong…I drink.”

_Son of a bitch…_

“And no lying!” said Tyrion, looking very serious. “I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Tiresias’ eyes fell to the floor. He had no intention of being caught in a lie. Of drinking to oblivion. It was an idiot idea. But when he looked back up, it seemed so enticing as well. And Tyrion was still there, waiting for his answer.

“Don’t make me invoke my lordly privilege,” said Tyrion. “Come on. It will be such fun.”

He should say no. Reject the game. He had his rule. Not to let anything slip…

But a new thought countered that rationale. A simple and powerful thought.

_Fuck it. Be careful…but fuck it._

He lifted his goblet and gulped the rest of his water before holding out his goblet for the refill.

“Excellent!” said Tyrion, pouring wine deftly into his cup. “Come on, sit up! This only works if I stare into your eyes.”

Tiresias pushed off from the lounge, keeping his cup steady. He planted his feet on the floor and faced Tyrion, who was refilling his own goblet.

“Now,” said the lord, placing the pitcher down and facing Tiresias. “I’ll begin.”

Tiresias had to keep himself from laughing. The concentration, the piercing stare; it was all there. Directed at him. He knew he should be wary, but he wasn’t.

_You’re truly a fool, Tiresias._

Tyrion pointed to him. “You have a dead sister.”

After a beat of meeting his eyes, Tiresias lifted his wine and drank.

_It’s as good as true. Everyone’s dead to me in that world. And I’m probably dead to them…_

He lowered his cup to see Tyrion refocused.

“You've killed more than one man before Ser Gregor.”

Realizing that any hesitation revealed more than he wanted, Tiresias brought his goblet up immediately and drank. He popped an almond in his mouth afterwards, chewing as Tyrion stared.

“You were on the losing side of a war and you fled Essos to escape the victors.”

Tiresias shook his head. Tyrion frowned as he drank, hissing through his teeth as he exhaled. Tiresias felt himself becoming more and more still.

Tyrion pointed. “You have a Northern wife in Winterfell.”

“That’s a question about my present, not my past.”

“Fine. You married a Northern girl.”

“Drink.”

Tyrion didn’t seem discouraged as he drank. He didn’t like the look in the lord’s eye.

_Shouldn’t have been that defensive._

“You have a Northern woman in Winterfell.”

_Not yet. _“Drink.”

The lord did so quickly. “You’re interested in a Northern woman in Winterfell.”

Resisting the urge to glance over the cliffs of Casterly Rock, Tiresias lifted his goblet. The wine tasted sour to him.

Tyrion smirked as he held out the pitcher. “I hope it goes well for you, my friend.”

“Aye, me too.” He let Tyrion refill his goblet before sitting back. “I think it’s my turn now.”

The lord nodded dramatically. “Very well. Proceed.”

Tiresias met his eyes easily. “You fucked a woman from Dorne.”

Tyrion sighed before drinking.

“You fucked a woman from the Reach.”

“That is near cheating,” protested Tyrion, though a mild grin fought onto his face. “All right, fine.” He drank and refilled his goblet.

“But please…be a bit more creative.”

“All right.” Tiresias leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You once masturbated into a soup that you let your sister eat.”

There was a silent stare between the two of them. Finally Tyrion couldn’t hold it any longer and burst out laughing.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Drink, you vile man. Drink.”

_Guess he exaggerated a bit in the Eyrie_, Tiresias mused as he drank. He was almost glad that bit wasn’t true.

He faced Tyrion again. “You…”

He hesitated. Should he? Should he not?

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “Yes…go on.”

Tiresias took a breath. “You cried as a child when you learned there were no more dragons in the world.”

Whatever Tyrion was expecting, it wasn’t that. His eyebrows remained raised as he regarded Tiresias. Finally he lifted his goblet and drank.

“I haven’t thought about that in years…” he muttered, still staring at Tiresias. “How’d you…how’d you know about that?”

Tiresias popped a date from the tray, chewing it slowly. “Peasant children cry when they can’t get dogs. Highborn children cry when they can’t get more expensive pets. You…I can only imagine you in your books, looking at the pictures and seeing a dragon…wanting one, knowing your family could probably afford one…

He swallowed the date and shrugged. “No more ridiculous than you ejaculating into your sister’s soup, aye?”

Tyrion snorted, though the suspicion in his eyes remained. “I suppose.”

They continued as such for another twenty minutes. Tiresias felt his mind slow and his voice slur. He drank more wine than he had in the past fortnight, but he still couldn’t keep up with Tyrion. Though the lord’s head continued to droop more and more as they played on.

It certainly helped Tiresias that his life in Essos was a lie. Made it easy to drink less. But Tyrion was getting close and he was beginning to regret taking part. He had to end this.

“One…one more, my friend,” he slurred. “One more…and it’s my turn.”

“No, no…no,” Tyrion stated, shaking his head. “Lordly privilege…I invoke my lordly privilege…”

Tiresias leaned forward. “I invoke…my guest privilege.”

They stared at each other and Tyrion sighed.

“Fuck,” he stated. “That is a good privilege.” He waved his hand. “Go on, then.”

Tiresias gathered what remained of his sobriety and took a breath.

“You were married.”

Tyrion’s smile vanished from his face as he peered into his eyes. Tiresias didn’t blink. Finally Tyrion drank.

“How did you know that?” asked Tyrion, lowering his goblet. “I can’t…I can’t imagine you heard it in Casterly Rock. My father, he…he despises the topic.”

“Soldiers talk,” muttered Tiresias as he shrugged. “It's a long ride...from Deep Den to here.”

“I suppose it is…” murmured Tyrion, as he gazed into his wine. He didn’t lift his head for his next question. “Did you hear the whole story?”

“Enough of it,” Tiresias said softly.

Tyrion smirked and shook his head. “Well, I’m not you, Tiresias…my friend…I didn’t challenge my father…to avenge the honor of a young…common girl.” He looked back up at the Rock, its dark outline visible against the stars. “But I did hate him though…I thoroughly hated him.”

“You still do.”

The lord pondered that and nodded, turning back to the tray and reaching for the pitcher.

“Yes,” he said, refilling his goblet. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

He met Tiresias’ eyes. “I believe...it’s still your turn.”

_In for a penny…_

“You’ve fantasized about killing your father.”

A low grin crept onto Tyrion’s face as the man nodded slowly. Finally his mouth opened dramatically.

“Drink,” he over-enunciated, his tongue clicking at the end.

_Indeed…indeed, you were always attached at some level._

As he drank, he heard Tyrion continue.

“I love my family. I’d never…would never even bet against them…though Jaime did cost me. Fell in King’s Landing…during the joust…didn’t you see?”

The game appeared to be over. Tyrion had laid back down on the lounge and Tiresias laid upon his. Lannisport seemed to be a little quieter and the prospect of falling asleep here on the brothel rooftop grew more alluring as the moment. Tiresias felt his head whirl slowly from the drink. He turned to the lord.

“You’re a smart man, my lord…rational. You know that?”

“Aye…aye, I do,” Tyrion mumbled. “Low cunning, my father calls it…”

“Your father’s not…not a rational man.” That caused Tyrion to turn toward him, his eyebrows raised. “Not as much...as he seems to believe. His actions toward you…his feelings…you know he hates you…”

Tyrion took a sip of his wine and spilled a bit on his shirt. He didn’t rise to anger though, instead he looked merely disappointed.

“Do you know why?”

The lord didn’t meet his eyes. “My mother…his only beloved…died as she gave birth…to me.”

“Tywin would have forgiven Jaime for that…he would have forgiven Cersei or any other child…that came out normal…but you…a dwarf?”

The remaining sobriety in his system caused him to hesitate, but he plunged forward. As gently as he could.

“He wanted to kill you,” he said faintly. “From the moment…from the moment you came into this world…he wanted to take you from your mother’s dead arms…and carry you into the sea…let the waves wash you away.

“That’s not a thought...of a rational man. Even if his wife just died.”

Tyrion propped himself up, staring at him.

“I live though…I'm still alive”

Tiresias nodded. “Aye…aye, you do. He didn’t do it…for whatever reason…but he still wanted to. He very…very much wanted to.”

The waves seemed to crash against the harbor more viciously in the distance. The tide was at its highest.

“Why…why are you saying this?” Tyrion asked, the slur doing little to hide his bewilderment.

Honestly, he didn’t know why he said it. As with Tywin, he had no plan for Tyrion, content to have him for conversation and to pass the time in Casterly Rock. Did he want him to move against Joffrey and Cersei? To placate his brother? To keep his head down? To kill Tywin and go across the Sea to Daenerys in so many years?

He didn’t know. For now, he was too drunk to make any sense of it. It just seemed enough to put the thought in Tyrion’s head. Though he was fucked if he knew what the lord would do with it.

Blinking, he realized that Tyrion was still waiting for an answer. He shrugged.

“Because I like you, my lord…I wouldn’t want to hear…that you fell…you fell on a sword to protect someone…who wouldn’t protect you. Your father…or any others.”

They stared at each other for a while. Tyrion looked very close to passing out.

“You have…” He stopped and stopped himself from vomiting before meeting his eyes again. “You have the straightest…and whitest goddamn teeth I’ve ever seen…”

Tiresias didn’t respond to that. Tyrion laid back down, but rallied himself for one more question.

“How do you know? That he…that he wanted to bring me out…bring me out and…how?

Tiresias set down his wine cup on the tray, staring up at the stars.

“I dreamt it. He confessed it to you. He seemed…annoyed…and pained...that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

His own eyes were growing heavy. He heard Tyrion yawn.

“That’s a shit dream, my friend…I’m…I’m off…to a better one...”

Sleep came quick for the lord. Tiresias was still conscious enough to register the man snoring in time with the waves. The combined two amused him and he chuckled drunkenly.

_Tywin would have placed him in those waves…_

He stopped chuckling immediately at the thought. A slight shame followed him as he fell into a heavy, drunken snooze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right guys! I only have two more chapters before I go into a writing hiatus for the next section of this story. I should confess that I live in an area that was besieged by wildfire smoke and I couldn't concentrate enough to write. So Ch. 36 might have a delay. It might not. I'll let you know next week when I publish Ch. 35.
> 
> Also, last year I was deciding between two stories to write. I wrote a bit of the other story before deciding to go with The Prophet From Maine. I might clean it up and publish it as a two chapter-sample. There are a few similarities but it might be fun. If so, it will be after Ch. 36.
> 
> Stay safe, look into voting and wear a mask! See you next Tuesday!


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

The excitement at his long-awaited departure couldn’t be doused by a lingering fear that once he passed the gates of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister would see that he never reached home. He acknowledged the fear, but dismissed it. Would Tywin keep an eye on him and all his future movements as well as he can? Probably. Would he go through the trouble of assassinating him on his land, after hosting him for a month and half? Probably not.

_At least not for the first hour or two._ _I have Tyrion as a guard._

It was for the little lord that he lingered in the courtyard. His wagon was packed, his horse hitched and all that was left was to wait for his brief traveling companion. Tyrion told him that he would ride with him down to the junction. Upon which, Tiresias would turn northeast onto the Riverroad and Tyrion would take the Goldroad back to King’s Landing. It wasn’t necessary and it slowed his day, but Tiresias wasn’t going to decline a final outing with Tyrion Lannister.

At least he hoped it wouldn’t be his final one. Tyrion should be in Winterfell in a few years, when the King comes.

_Who knows if that will still happen though? With everything I changed…_

It was too soon to think of that. Though he did worry about his relationship with Tyrion. Perhaps drunken revelations from a guest about one’s father did more to sour their friendship than anything else. However, when they both woke up the following morning on the rooftop, Tyrion didn’t mention any part of their inebriated conversation. He was back to his old self. Fighting hangovers, they trudged back up to Casterly Rock where Tiresias kept to his quarters; sleeping, drinking water and generally recovering for the rest of the day.

As much as he wanted to leave Casterly Rock without seeing Tywin, he knew it would be unnecessarily insulting not to thank his host. His rather insistent host…

_You’re in the game now, mate. You’re on the board. There are rules now._

So after breakfast, he took the long walk to Tywin’s solar. The Old Lion curtly received his thanks and dismissed him, barely looking up from his desk. The brief exchange took all of thirty seconds.

After double-checking the wagon, there was nothing else to do. He stood, waiting for near an hour, but Tyrion didn’t show. A part of him wondered if this move to King’s Landing was nothing more than a drunken musing from the little lord. Tywin didn’t mention his son’s departure when Tiresias gave his thanks this morning. And he hadn’t seen any trunks or wagons packed elsewhere.

Perhaps he would be waiting for Tyrion until sunset.

_Probably deserve it too. Certainly kept a few people waiting myself these past several months…_

However no sooner did he think that, did he heard horses approaching the courtyard from the stables. He counted about fifteen before they emerged. Tyrion Lannister lead a contingent of ten soldiers along with four horses attached to loaded wagons.

Climbing quickly aboard, Tiresias clicked his tongue and the wagon rolled forward. He turned to the gate as Tyrion rode up besides him.

“Morning, my friend,” he stated, all signs of yesterday’s hangover absent. He slowed the horse down to the speed of the wagon. “Apologies for the wait.”

“Not at all,” Tiresias replied. “How do you feel?”

“Excellent,” Tyrion said, as they approached the Lion’s Mouth, passing under the gate. “I’ll wait, of course, ‘til I’m far away to squeal with delight. But I’m truly happy leaving this place…even it means I’ll be near my sister. And my sour little nephew.”

“You’ll be near your brother, too.” Tiresias hoped his tone was light. “And Myrcella and Tommen. I’ve heard they’re good children.”

“Aye, thank the gods.”

Conversation mostly ceased as they made their way down the cliff to the junction. Tiresias, to his surprise, found it easy not to gaze back at Casterly Rock. Tyrion didn’t look back once.

It was another hour before they reached the junction. Tiresias looked briefly south down the Oceanroad.

_Maybe one day._

He turned back to see Tyrion paused. The soldiers halted as well, waiting for their lord to start again. Huffs from the horses filled the air.

“Well, Tiresias,” said Tyrion, with only the slightest sentimentality. “It was a pleasure. Out of all the men my father had brought to the Rock against their will, you are easily the best conversationalist. Not the best cyvasse player though.”

“I do what I can, my lord,” Tiresias said. “Thank you for the tomes and the food and the…well, everything else. Pleasure was mine.”

Tyrion smiled, before turning to the men. “Captain, ride on a ways and wait for me.”

He waited until all the guards had ridden along the Goldroad for a few hundred feet before halting. When Tyrion looked back, Tiresias was surprised to see his eyes so serious.

“Tiresias,” he said, leaving no room for humor. “Don’t return to the Westerlands. At least not while my father’s still alive. Lay low for a few years.”

The same thought crossed his mind earlier, but he was glad to hear it voiced. To hear it validated.

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “I’ve a warning for you too, if you’d like to hear it.”

Tyrion gestured. “Please.”

“Don’t antagonize your sister and your nephew too much. It may feel good to slap him down…but he will be King one day and he’s very petty. They both are. They'll remember everything.”

“I’ll try…” Tyrion was unable to hide a grin. “But have you met my nephew, Tiresias? He makes it so very easy.”

“Tyrion,” Tiresias said, cutting across him. “I’m serious. Be careful. I don’t want to see your head on a spike.”

All right, perhaps, he could have started with imprisonment or general bodily harm before going all the way to beheading, but he wanted to drive home the point. Tyrion stared at him, trying to find some frivolity but Tiresias gave him none. Finally he sighed and nodded.

“I’ll do my best.” He looked to the guard and back. “Well, Tiresias, I’m not sure when we’ll see each other again. Feel free to write though. The Red Keep has quite the rookery and I’m always quick with a response.”

He extended his hand and Tiresias shook it.

“Have a safe journey, my lord.”

“You as well, my friend. Hope you can return to that Northern beauty of yours.”

Tiresias didn’t even blink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That got a chuckle out of Tyrion. “That’s the spirit. Farewell.”

With that, Tyrion gently kicked his horse and cantered up to the guards, who fell in line behind him. Tiresias watched as they continued down the Goldroad and disappeared around a bend.

A breeze from the west drifted through the air. Tiresias caught the scent of salt from the sea. For the first time since King’s Landing, he was alone. Which both relieved and slightly terrified him. He was still in the Westerlands. He still killed the Mountain. He needed to leave.

Brushing a reassuring hand across his dagger hilt, he took up the reins and steered the wagon northeast, onto the Riverroad. Now that he wasn’t coming down a mountain, he put the horse to a faster pace. It would be at least eight days before he reached the Golden Tooth. Then it was Riverrun. From there Harroway onto the Crossroads. Then up the Kingsroad to Winterfell.

“Sorry, mate,” he muttered to the horse, the same spotted mare that Jory brought south for him. “It’s gonna be a long one.”

The scent of the sea disappeared quickly though, replaced by the deep earth brought up by mineshafts. Along with cedars and fresh rivers from the mountains. It didn’t smell like the North, but it was closer.

* * *

Rain found its way through the trees somehow and Tiresias was forced to wear his hood up. The tomes were protected well enough. Under trunk and burlap. But all this rain could not bode great for the wagon.

A part of him wanted to curse himself. It was his fault, his own impatience that spurned him forward. He didn’t push the horse more than necessary, but he didn’t dally when he could. Nearly two months of travel had made him only more eager to reach Winterfell and a little rain didn’t deter him.

At least that’s what he told himself. He sniffed the air as the first drops fell and sensed a brief but heavy fall. The water wouldn’t rise from the swamp and wash over the road. If it did, he would get down and lead the horse on foot.

_It’s better than your first trek up here. At least this time you’re staying on the road all the way through._

That thought ran through his head multiple times. He was also grateful just to be in the Neck, where no one would ask his name and business…

Traveling through the Westerlands was a tricky balance. He tried to camp as often as he could, but for the sake of his horse, he needed to stable and purchase feed every couple of days. Inns were easy to find and hard to pass by.

Tiresias wondered if Tywin sent word of his coming to the lords along the Riverroad. He doubted that he meant the word to get down to the smallfolk. But the lords would tell someone and then they would tell someone else down the ladder and on and on until he would be eating in a tavern, nameless until he felt wide eyes on his back.

Thankfully only a few approached him. One or two serving girls. A stablemaster asked him to repeat his name, having heard it elsewhere. But other than that, it was just bewilderment and silent appraisal. He often heard scoffs and other sounds of disbelief along with such looks. Obviously, people didn’t see a mighty warrior when they regarded him.

For that, he was thankful. However, he was no longer anonymous. He didn’t know what gave away his identity. His wagon and trunk? His accent? His journey east?

_My ridiculously handsome face?_

He snorted at the thought. Whatever it was, he was a name now. And he had to live with it. He was just glad he had his right hand back to help him.

He didn’t have to live it all the time though. Things improved immensely once he got past the Golden Tooth and entered the Riverlands. Looks of recognition followed him still, but they decreased as he made his way farther east. Eventually he was able to give a false name to all the inns he stayed at.

He was tempted to give his old name. Be Clark again for a month or so. However, he couldn’t do it. When the innkeeper asked his name at the first night in the Riverlands, he hesitated; the name stuck in his throat.

Upon the innkeeper asking him a second time, he recovered and stated Johann. An old nickname from a German classroom. Clark was in that class.

But Clark was dead.

So Johann travelled east with the tomes. Johann was able to enter the taverns and satisfy any curious eyes with a single glance. Johann was able to be nobody.

And Johann was able to fade into the background, hearing conversations all around. He heard Tiresias mentioned quite a number of times. It was a challenge to eat and swallow languidly as he heard one tale after another.

_His third night in the Riverlands, a group of three had come and joined his table, taking the other end. A fat man, a grey-whiskered man who smelled of horse and a baker. Tiresias glanced and saw the flour on his wrists._

_Otherwise, he ignored them and they returned the favor. This continued for a while and it made for a wonderfully dull evening as he ate. However, he was no more than halfway done with his stew when the conversation unfortunately shifted. _

_“It’s what I’ve heard, mate!” the baker said. “The Mountain was downed by a fucking librarian!”_

_The fat man snorted. “Horseshit.”_

_“Why’s it horseshit?”_

_“Yeh ever seen the Mountain?”_

_The baker shook his head. “No.”_

_“Well, I ‘ave! Tallest bastard I’ve ever seen. No other knight could touch him. So what’s a fucking maester to do?”_

_“I told yeh. Weren’t no maester. It was a librarian from Essos, Tyrias.”_

_“Tyrias?”_

_The baker shrugged. “That’s his name. So I heard. He’s foreign.”_

_Another snort came from the fat man. “Horseshit.”_

_“Yeh keep saying horseshit, mate! What? Do yeh…”_

_He sensed the baker looking to him. Thankfully his eyes were on his stew._

_Still the baker lowered his tone. _ _“Yeh think the Mountain’s not dead?”_

_“No.” The fat man shook his head. “He’s dead. Only thing all the stories agree on. Just don’t believe a librarian killed him.”_

_The baker turned to the third man._

_“What, yeh used up all your words speaking to the horses? What’d yeh think?”_

_The grey-whiskered man took a draught before speaking._

_“I saw him too once…years ago. He was comin’ back from the Iron Islands. The rebellion. Tended to some horses. His and his men. Saw him up close.”_

_Tiresias chanced a glance. The horsemaster was gazing into his mug._

_“Don’t think he got any shorter since then…or weaker. If he’s dead, truly…then whoever killed him…”_

_The man breathed through his nose._

_“Whoever killed him…must be a fucking beast…fucking beast just wearing a man’s skin.”_

_Lifting his face, he fixed his eyes on his friends. “But based on that day...tending to him and his men...I don’t care who killed him. I salute him, man or beast.”_

_A brief silence followed as the man drank, not waiting for his friends to return his toast._

_The fat man turned to the baker and shrugged. “Well, there yeh go. Yeh ever know a man of letters to be a fucking beast?”_

_Tiresias took a sip of ale to cover his shaking hand._

_“Well, he sure didn’t used a book to fight,” the baker retorted. “Dagger fits in the hand just as well. Better I say!”_

_The fat man laughed. “Weren’t no librarian and weren’t no fucking dagger. Yeh think some prick-blade could pierce that armor. He had to have had a sword.”_

_“No, no…” The baker shook his head. “There weren’t no sword. Haney said spear and dagger.”_

_Tiresias was very grateful that he wore his cloak, which hid his sheath._

_“And where’d Haney hear this?”_

_“From a smith who heard it from a knight. Came ‘round bout month past. Traveling with the Marband outfit from the Tooth.”_

_The fat man stared. “Did this knight see it? See this mad cunt take on the Mountain? With spear and dagger?”_

_“Well…well, I don’t know! Haney was sure that the smith was sure that the knight was sure!”_

_“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”_

Over the last two months, he heard some variant of that conversation a couple dozen times. It was almost guaranteed if he ate at an inn. His pulse raced the first few times, but as he traveled, it was easier. He put Johann as a front and disappeared in plain view.

Being anonymous again...it was hard not to savor the feeling. How easy it was in this world to run away and not be found. To build anew. He didn’t have to come from a different world to do so. If he was born in the Westerlands or the Stormlands or across the Narrow Sea, who would stop an anonymous stranger from making a new life?

It was a selfish thought though. He tried not to feed it. He’d worked hard for his place in Winterfell. He didn't want to give it up. Besides, he had been through too much bullshit not to return.

Riverrun was a short journey from the Golden Tooth. He halted the wagon and gazed at the moated castle from the road. A part of him was inclined to ask for shelter that evening. He could send a raven to Winterfell, informing Lord Stark of his progress.

He clicked his tongue and continued on. There were still many miles to travel yet. Purchasing feed at an inn, he camped out in the summer nights, riding from dawn to dusk. It was a little over three sennights before he arrived at Harroway. There it was less than a day to the Crossroads. Then up the Kingsroad all the way to Winterfell.

Back in the Neck, Tiresias patted his pocket. A small wrapped package was lodged there. Back in Harroway, he passed a silversmith and commissioned a gift for Mal. It took a night's stay, but it was worth it in his eyes. Using the extra day to rest the horse, he departed for the Crossroads.

Did this mean he made his decision? It probably did. He just hoped it wasn’t too late. By the time he returned, ten months would have gone by. That was not their agreement and he was not looking forward to that conversation. How much would he have to tell to excuse himself? How much would she accept?

His musings were interrupted by an approaching scent. He took a sniff as nonchalantly as he could and relaxed. This one was very familiar. One of the first he ever detected.

It was a few more minutes before he turned his focus down to his left. Shortly after, Annag walked out of the marsh, her net still at her side, with the same three-pronged spear. Only a few greyed hairs along her scalp was any indication of time passed.

Tiresias smiled. He couldn’t help it. Halting the wagon, he peered down at one of his first savoirs in Westeros. “Hello, Annag. How do you fare?”

“Well enough,” she answered, not returning his smile. Though her eyes did lighten a bit. He counted that in his favor. “And you?”

“Same, I suppose. I’m alive.”

She didn’t answer to that. Frog calls and bird cries sang with the rain. Tiresias took advantage of the pause and reached for his waterskin, taking a draught.

“It’s good to see you, Annag,” he said, capping the skin. “But I can’t imagine this to be a coincidence.”

“I have a message from Lord Reed,” she said, coming around to the front. She patted the mare’s neck.

“How is he?”

She shrugged. “All right. He’s walks slower than he did before. Still sharp of mind though.”

“Should hope so.” Tiresias wiped the rain from his face. “He’s not that old.”

“His son, Jojen, is a greenseer as well.” She looked to him. “Did you know that?”

Tiresias nodded. “How old is he?”

“Eight. The lad’s been having nightmares. He wakes up and calms, but what he speaks of…” She looked at him. “The boy’s too young to say for certain, and Lord Reed’s not sure of what he even dreams. But Lord Reed is certain of this: you don’t have as much time as you think.”

The rain continued to fall, but Tiresias ceased to register it.

“Until what? The White Walkers? The South exploding into war? Something else?”

He almost mentioned Daenerys Targaryen before stopping himself. He hadn’t informed anyone of that yet. Assuming Lord Stark hadn’t read his letter.

“He didn’t say,” Annag replied. “Though the boy’s already been asking about Winterfell for a year now. I’d say it’s a fair wager what’s coming for you more viciously.”

Annag stepped back from the mare, who shook her head, ridding her mane of rainwater.

“So whatever you did in the South…I hope it was worth staying away from the North all this time.”

He had set the preparations to continue when he left. The food stores continued to be filled. Dragonglass was still imported. Benjen and Jeor Mormont were trying to work beyond the Wall and get the Night’s Watch and Free Folk under some compromise.

Still, he couldn’t help but acknowledge that he spent nearly ten months away from Winterfell, the last part of which, he was wined and dined spectacularly.

Tiresias sighed. “Aye, I hope so too.”

Annag turned to leave, but she hesitated and pivoted back.

“And the Mountain?” she asked. Tiresias heard the reluctant admiration in her voice. Along with a heaping amount of exasperation. “Was he worth it?”

Tiresias almost laughed. “Annag, I’m going to have to explain that bit of stupidity to everyone in Winterfell. Including a young woman that I’m very fond of. Do I have to explain it to you now?”

Annag considered it for a moment before sighing. “At least you killed him. How’s your arm?”

He flexed his digits automatically. “All right. Not as strong as it was. Need to train it back up. How are Martan and Dallan?”

“Dallan’s lost two fingers since last you saw him, but he’s fine. Martan has a wife now. They just had a girl.”

Tiresias nodded, his chest lightening at the news. “Would you tell them both I say hello? And congratulations to Martan?”

“Aye.” She pulled her hood up and scoffed. “You know, I’m not sure whether or not I find it comforting; that you’re the same dumb shite who wandered into the Neck with no plan to survive.”

He considered it before shrugging. “Learned some things. I’m keeping to the road this time.”

Annag walked back into the marsh.

“Low bar,” she called back over the rain. “Good luck in Winterfell!”

Tiresias watched her disappear, before turning back and clicking his tongue. The wagon pulled through the mud and continued on. He sniffed the air. This rainfall would only last for a few more minutes.

Lord Reed’s relayed warning ran through his mind, turning his stomach sour. He was not fond of shortened timelines. If it was the White Walkers who would move more quickly, what motivated them? Was it the Night King’s necromancy that saw him working to undermine him? Was it just the Free Folk using the dragonglass in their skirmishes? Was it just plain bad luck?

He didn’t know. And ultimately it wasn’t too important. Balancing the oncoming wars from the North, in the South and from the East was not something he could accomplish while driving a wagon through the mud.

_Just one day at a time, man. One task after another._

* * *

As eager as he was to reach Winterfell and as long as he had been away, Tiresias felt more and more anxious the farther north he rode. He briefly thought that he could attribute it to lingering fears from the Dreadfort, to the possibility of Locke and his men waiting for him along the Kingsroad.

However, no hunters awaited him. The only people he encountered were the innkeepers who sold him horsefeed, farmers and a few travelers. And so he drew nearer. To the castle which he had called home for over five years. He hoped he’d still be welcomed.

_That’s ridiculous, man. They know you and care for you._

_Do they know me? They don’t know Clark at all. How much do they know Tiresias? Who was Tiresias to them? Who is he now?_

He couldn’t answer these questions. Not by himself and certainly not on the road. He resisted the urge at Castle Cerywn to send the tomes onward and disappear. Find anonymity again. There were so many places in the world where no one had seen his face. Where nobody had heard of Tiresias. Maybe he’ll switch again. Become Johann. That name fit well enough in the Riverlands…

_Stop it! You made your decision years ago when you first traveled north. You have a life here now. It’s not something a man walks away from. _

So he set off from the inn outside of Castle Cerwyn. Determined to make it. And to have no regrets. About any of it.

Except maybe Rosie.

He was still nervous though. Four days later, before midday, he rolled out of a glen and came onto the meadows. It was a clear, cool day and Winterfell was quite visible in the distance. He halted the wagon and collected himself before continuing on.

Pulling his hood up, he hoped to deter any ruckus before it was absolutely necessary. However a wagon driving through Wintertown around midday drew glances. It began there. Tiresias was no king, no army and no dragon. There were no shouts, no exclamations, but there were murmurs and silences. Both directed at him.

There were a few that he greeted by name. The candlemaker, Reben and his daughter. The pig farmer, Antorn. Both of whom managed to say hello back, despite their stares. Other than that, he kept his eyes forward, driving the wagon toward the castle.

He didn’t see Halford at the front gate. Vics were there though, with three new guards. Tiresias couldn’t help laughing a little. Vics was now the head guard at the gate. Still had the blonde curls though.

“Halt,” Vics called. Tiresias pulled the wagon to a gentle stop. “What business do you have…?”

The guard stopped when he saw his face.

“Hello, Vics.” Tiresias sighed, looking to the courtyard and back to the guard. “Can I go in? I’m very tired. And homesick.”

“Ah…aye.” Vics kept nodding his head slowly, looking at him. “You…you want I should go and tell Lord Stark you’re here?”

“Nah,” said Tiresias, shaking his head. “He’ll figure it out. Gotta get these tomes to the library. They’ve traveled quite a way.”

He leaned down. “Did Jory and a young blacksmith ever arrive? Are they here?”

“Aye,” said Vics. “Aye, more than two months ago.”

“Good,” Tiresias murmured, sitting back up. “Good, good.”

He sighed. “Can I go through now?”

“Aye,” said the guard said, still nodding. “Aye, go on.”

He moved aside along with the rest of the guard. Tiresias clicked his tongue and rolled past the gate. Vics found his tongue as he did.

“How’s your arm?”

Tiresias lifted it in response. “Still here.”

Keeping his hood up, he didn’t feel any more stares as he made his way to the stables. Hullen was out somewhere and a stableboy assisted him. Tiresias unhitched the mare, giving her a final pat as she was led away.

“Give her a nice rest. She’s travelled far,” he called after the lad. Once they unloaded the wagon and rolled it into the holding area, he turned and sniffed, taking in the whole courtyard.

It smelled exactly the same and based on the sensations emanating from the kitchens, he guessed it was just past the midday meal. He didn’t feel like eating though and the anxiety of meeting someone…

He still had to get the tomes up. That was his excuse and he latched onto it. However, he couldn’t lift the trunk alone.

Just then, he heard heavy footprints were coming toward him. He turned to see Hodor approaching him. He paused in front of Tiresias, looking him up and down.

“Hodor?”

Tiresias nodded. “Yep. I’m back.” He smiled grimly. “How’ve you been, Hodor?”

“Hodor.”

“Aye, me too.” He turned to the trunk. “I’m guessing you can probably lift this whole thing by yourself. But could you please just grab one end and let me carry the other?”

Hodor looked to the trunk and went to the other side, sliding his huge hand through one of the handles. Tiresias grabbed the other one.

“Thanks, Hodor,” he grunted, bending his knees. “Remember, use your legs.”

In the end, Hodor still carried more of the weight but Tiresias walked ahead and guided the trunk through the halls and up the stairs. He encountered some familiar faces, like Maygen, the serving girl, who stared after him mute. Theon Greyjoy did the same, but ran off quickly toward the Great Hall, presumably to tell Robb and maybe Jon as well.

The midday meal meant no one was in the library tower. He and Hodor set the trunk down before his table. It was covered in backed-up work. Translations, donations and hundreds of scrolls of parchments that he would have to see to. Mercifully, they were divided neatly into piles. He supposed he had Maester Luwin to thank for that.

But today was not the day to deal with them. He turned to Hodor, the big man simply waiting for him to speak. There was the first time he had seen Hodor in the library. A tinge of regret went through him. He never went out of his way to speak to Hodor. To know him truly. There was just…so much to do…

Still, he felt guilty and stuck out his hand.

“Thank you, Hodor,” he said. “That was very heavy and I couldn’t have gotten it up here by myself. Thank you.”

Hodor reached out and softly placed his hand on Tiresias’ shoulder. He looked into his eyes and nodded.

“Hodor.”

Tiresias patted his hand. “Thanks, Hodor. I’m glad to be home too.”

With that, Hodor turned and exited the library. Tiresias made room on the table and deposited the eleven Old Tongue tomes. He would catalog them tomorrow. As for now, he was tired. He looked to the empty trunk and chuckled.

_Free trunk. Thanks, Tywin._

He carried the trunk down to his quarters, much lighter without the tomes, lifting it so his face was hidden. Childish, sure, but he had no mute stares lodged at him this time. Plus, his feet knew the way. Soon he was at his door. Marveling at the fact that he hadn’t lost his key during his entire trek, he unlocked his room and shut the door behind him.

Dropping the trunk, he threw his rucksack on the ground, unbuckled his belt with the sheath and collapsed onto the bed. It smelled so good. Like it was when he returned from Gulltown years ago, someone had come in and dusted.

A weariness took hold of him. He couldn’t get up, but he managed to kick his boots off. It was ridiculous. He had sat on a wagon for over two months, warily relaxed at Casterly Rock beforehand. He shouldn’t be this tired and there was so much work to do…

_Just a few minutes…I only need a few minutes…_

He adjusted his pillow underneath and closed his eyes.

* * *

A brisk knocking bolted him blindly from the bed. He swayed as he sat up, his hand darting to his side before remembering that he had removed his sheath and that he was in Winterfell. Blinking as he relaxed, he focused again on the door.

_Probably don’t need a dagger against someone who would knock._

The visitor rapped on the door again.

Tiresias wiped dried drool from his mouth. “Hello?”

Lord Stark opened the door, but remained at the entrance. Tiresias nodded.

“Lord Stark, afternoon. Or…” He turned back to the window and saw the orange sunset coloring the sky. “Evening, I guess.”

“You’ve returned.”

Tiresias swallowed. His mouth was too dry.

“Aye. Much later than I anticipated. I’m sorry about that. Sorry as well that I didn’t come and see you right away, my lord. I only came here to deposit my things, but I…I was more tired than I thought.”

Silence reigned for a good bit as Tiresias tried to read the Warden’s face. He seemed to be collecting a whole range of emotions. There was relief, sure. But a grimness as well. Disbelief, a slight anger, exasperation…

And questions. Questions that seemed to fighting their way out of him.

Lord Stark started simple. “Your injuries. Are they all healed?”

“Aye, I was well looked after.”

“And your arm?”

Tiresias flexed the digits, rotating the wrist. “Healed. I feel no pain, but it’s not as strong as it once was. I’ll need to train it back up.”

Ned continued to look at him impassively. Tiresias sighed. 

“Lord Stark…what I did…I…”

“We’ll speak on that tomorrow,” Ned cut across, though not ungently. “I want you in my solar after midday. Understood?”

Tiresias nodded. “Aye.”

Lord Stark sighed. “Have you eaten?”

He shook his head. “I was going to go down to the kitchen in a couple of hours. Grab something…”

“Come with me,” said Lord Stark. “You’ll sit with me tonight. And my family.”

It was the gentlest of commands, but it was still a command. Lord Stark stood aside in the doorway and waited for him. He remained seated on the bed, gazing at his host. Ned returned his gaze, with patience and a certain understanding.

“You won’t make it any easier if you hide away here, sneaking about the castle,” he said. “Best walk with me and get it over with it.”

Tiresias took an inhale, releasing it through his nose. After strapping his boots on, he stood and joined Ned Stark in the hallway. His fingers brushed his pocket as they walked. His gift was still there.

The corridors in Winterfell were mostly deserted, as it was time for supper. However, as they approached the Great Hall, he heard the rumble of conversation from a long ways off.

He took one more fortifying breath as they entered. Which was good as Ned Stark didn’t allow him to pause beforehand. He entered as Lord of Winterfell, without hesitation and Tiresias could only follow.

At first, it was fine. Lord Stark was not a lord that demanded strict pomp and circumstance. The conversations that Tiresias heard approaching the Great Hall continued freely as they made their way to the high table. Only the nearby diners paused and greeted Ned Stark with “M’Lord”.

That lasted for about thirty seconds. By then, it was abundantly clear whom Ned Stark was walking with and the Great Hall fell silent. The only sounds were the hearths blazing and the thuds of their boots walking up.

Tiresias kept his eyes on the back of Ned Stark. Perhaps the cowardly way to go, but he just didn’t feel cavalier enough to nod blithely in greetings to the silent stares that followed him down the hall.

However, that option was soon gone. Sure enough, they reached the high table and Ned Stark gestured for him to sit next to him. He did so, pulling his chair in and hearing the wood scrape along the floor. It echoed and he almost smiled. He remembered what an echo in this hall sounded like.

When he raised his head and looked across the table, it took a considerable effort not to look shocked. The children of House Stark were all staring at him and they looked more than ever like their show counterparts. Which he supposed made sense. They were only a few years away from the show’s start and he had been away for ten months. That’s enough time for a child to grow considerably.

A genuine smile came to his face. There were times he thought he would never see them again.

“Hello everyone.” He made his way around the table. “Cara, Sansa, Robb, Theon, Bran, Arya, Jon. Sorry for being late.” Ned just sat down and Tiresias turned to the lady on his other side. “Lady Stark, it’s good to see you. You look well.”

Catelyn nodded, more poised than anyone else, but she still seemed to be holding back her own questions.

“Thank you, Tiresias. Welcome back to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Lady Stark. It’s good to be back.”

Somehow, he found the strict formality of her greeting oddly comforting. He glanced to the hall, still hushed and staring at him. He looked to Lord Stark, a silent plea in his eyes.

Ned saw it. He didn’t call out or address the hall. He merely picked up the pitcher and gestured for his cup. Tiresias dully handed it to him. The sounds of ale flowing into his cup filled the silent high table.

After handing back his full cup, Ned filled his own. He raised his cup and Tiresias met it with a clink. He drank deeply, savoring the Northern ale he’d become so accustomed to over the years. The wine at Casterly Rock couldn’t compare…

_Come on now. That’s a harsh judgment. An unfair one, too. Still, I’ve missed this…_

Ned lowered his cup and turned to Robb. “Robb, did Maester Luwin give you the fur trade accounts? From Deepwood Motte, Bear Island and Torrhen’s Square?”

Robb managed to turn his questioning gaze from Tiresias and faced his father. It took a couple of seconds though.

“Aye, Father. I’ve haven’t had a chance to read them through yet.”

“Well, you don’t have to memorize them. I just want you to be able to surmise them and to have some familiarity of their contents before I go over them with you in a few days.”

By refusing to play up the return of Tiresias, Ned essentially told all others to continue on as such. It took a few seconds, but Tiresias, glancing out, saw Barth turn to his plate again and continue to eat. A couple more men followed him, the murmurs of conversation began anew and soon, the hall was back to its dinner. Tiresias still felt the stares, but he breathed for the first time since entering this place.

Of course, that was the rest of the Great Hall. He was still besieged by very curious diners at his table. Ones who wouldn’t be distracted by Ned’s attempt at subterfuge. Robb’s training as future Lord of Winterfell wasn’t nearly exciting enough.

He set his ale down, meeting the eyes of Arya who was sitting right opposite him. Her meat pie was quite forgotten.

“How have you been, milady?” he asked, hoping she’d forgive him for the title. It wasn’t worth it in front of Catelyn.

“Did you really slay a giant?” Arya asked loudly, not even addressing the ‘milady’.

“Arya Stark!” exclaimed Catelyn. Her eyes were very bright, but she kept her voice low enough to be confined to the table. “I told you beforehand, _all of you_, that that was not an appropriate conversation for dinner. Tiresias, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s all right, Lady Stark, it’s all right,” he spoke as soothingly as possible, trying to calm the situation. He didn’t wish to be responsible for a child’s beratement.

He nodded to Catelyn, trying to keep a reassuring smile on his face.

_Not too wide of a smile, Tiresias. That’s the key._

“I’m sure that I’ll have to get used to those questions. I won’t give explicit details, but I’m happy to explain it to her. Just so she doesn’t have to rely on outlandish rumors for the story. Only if you approve, of course.”

Catelyn looked to Ned, who nodded, before returning her gaze to Tiresias. She sighed.

“Very well,” she said. “Only as much as you’re comfortable saying.”

Tiresias turned back to Arya, her eyes still wide.

“I dueled a man in the Westerlands, Arya, in Deep Den, a castle fort on the Goldroad, home of House Lydden. Do you know where it is?”

Arya nodded her head. “Robb showed me on a map.”

“I see,” Tiresias said. He felt Catelyn shoot Robb a pointed look, Robb trying not to wither under it…

“Anyway, it was a trial-by-combat and I volunteered as a champion. The man I dueled was very tall. He wasn’t a giant. They reside north of the Wall. But he was the tallest man I’ve ever seen.”

“Taller than Hodor?”

Tiresias took an unnecessary beat to consider it. “Aye. Taller than Hodor.”

“You killed him, then? Ser Gregor Clegane?”

He looked to Arya’s left. Jon Snow asked the question politely enough. Though he could sense the underlying questions underneath: what? Why? How the fuck?

_Probably saving those for the training yard. Out of the ear of Lady and Lord Stark._

Making sure there was no boast in his tone before he answered, he nodded and spoke softly.

“Aye…aye, I did.”

If he was sitting in front of Theon, he would have been asked for the gory details. He could feel the young Greyjoy practically bursting to on the other side of the table. Thankfully Jon didn’t. The boy’s dark eyes fell to his arm.

“You were hurt?”

“I was. It’s why I didn’t return with Jory and Gendry before. I had to recover before I could travel.”

“How are your injuries, Tiresias?” Catelyn interrupted. The concern was genuine, but it came with an underlying message. This subject was now closed.

“As far as I know, my Lady, I’m completely healed,” he responded. “I was tended to by a talented maester and he was able to save my arm.”

“I’m very happy to hear that,” she said. “The Seven were kind to you that day.”

“They certainly were,” Tiresias murmured. Maygen placed a plate first in front of Ned Stark and then in front of him. He said thanks, whilst staring out across the Great Hall, looking for another serving girl…

Mal wasn’t in the Great Hall. Not that he could see. She was out at the moment. Or perhaps she wasn’t serving anymore, with more responsibilities under Mistress Bane. He wished he had asked Gord in King's Landing.

His sweeping eyes met a few others who were staring at him. If he had time, he gave a nod, but they usually snapped back to their plates. It didn’t seem to be fear. At the same time, it made him uncomfortable.

However, his heart lightened as he looked at the far back corner of the hall. Gendry was seated amongst a few other apprentices from the smithy. He could smell the ironworks on their clothes from the high table. Tiresias sighed in relief. Not that he doubted Jory’s resolve. Vics told him at the gate, but it was another thing to see the boy himself, safe in Winterfell.

Gendry glanced up from his bowl to see his gaze and froze. Tiresias smiled and gave a small wave. The boy nodded back, smiling.

Though perhaps that was a mistake. The other boys surrounding Gendry saw whom he was nodding at. The conversation at their table began anew, all questions directed at the young blacksmith.

It didn’t surprise Tiresias. There was plenty of time to think at Casterly Rock and one of his summations was that he was placing Jory and Gendry in awkward positions when they arrived at Winterfell, the only two witnesses to his actions at Deep Den. They were bound to be pestered.

_Though I’ll probably take some of the heat off them. Now that I’m back._

The thought didn’t cheer him. He resigned himself to a few explanations of what happened. To be cold, to take no joy in the violence, to be adamantly minimal with the details. He tried that with Arya just now and it was fine.

However, not every inquisitor would have Lady Stark behind them to restrain their curiosity. Many would not be satisfied by his minimal approach. The children weren’t. He could see that in their eyes, as he brought his attention back to the table. Every one, with the exception of Cara Stark, was bursting to learn more.

He'd have to be careful. Only a select few should hear his full accounting. Lord Stark was one.

And Mal…if she ever showed. He glanced around the hall again and still saw no sign of her. He began to suspect that her absence was quite deliberate...

However the evening was still young. There would be time after. Breaking open his steak and ale pie, he turned to the children, switching to the Old Tongue.

_“Who here knows, how many books I bring north? To Winterfell?”_

All the children gave their guesses. And the dinner continued. After a short apology to Lord and Lady Stark, with their permission, he questioned the children in the Old Tongue, learning what they had been up to during his ten-month absence. Robb, Theon and Jon went hunting with Ser Rodrik and some other guards. They ended up camping for three days by a waterfall.

Tiresias felt his eyes drift to Jon, though Robb spoke.

_Be willing to bet that’s the same spot you ended your first dragon ride, Jon…_

Bran had begun to climb and showed his hands where his littles palms had begun to callus. Though he spoke in the Old Tongue, he underestimated how much his mother could intuit. Or even just see.

Leaving Bran to be gently scolded by Catelyn, he turned to Sansa who was beginning to sew roses into her patterns. Reaching into his pocket, Tiresias produced the well-worn armband with the Stark insignia. He had only meant to show that he still kept it and appreciated it deeply. She snatched it from his fingers and promised to fix the stitches, asking as well to stitch a winter rose into the band as well. To which, Tiresias gave his blessing.

They continued talking for a while, in between bites. Strangely, even though he was sitting closest to them, Arya and Jon were the quietest. After their initial questions, they stayed relatively silent. The restraint that Tiresias sensed in Jon Snow was only more obvious in Arya. How they gripped their utensils, the furtive glances. The only difference were the looks of warning and reassurance that Jon shot Arya whenever she looked to speak up again.

Tiresias didn’t have the heart to engage them in the Old Tongue. Not for mere practice. After the first few questions, he focused on finishing his meal. Twenty minutes after entering the Great Hall, he drained the rest of his ale and stood.

“Are you all right, Tiresias?” asked Catelyn. “Have you eaten enough?”

“Aye, my Lady, thank you.” He nodded briskly. “I figured I should take care of a few things tonight. Tomorrow I begin to catch up with all the piled-up work in the library.”

He turned to the rest of the table. “I’ll see you all tomorrow there. Lord Stark; after midday tomorrow in your solar, aye?”

Ned nodded. “Aye. Rest well, Tiresias. It’s good to have you back.”

Tiresias couldn’t help a small smile. “Thank you, my Lord. Good to be back. Good night.”

He inclined his head, before turning to exit the hall. As he proceeded to the side door, he heard a fresh wave of renewed muttering behind him. Thanks to his ear, he still heard it as he proceeded down the hall.

_That will calm down, man. It has to. Don’t let it bother you._

However the mutterings didn’t cease until he exited the Great Keep, stepping into the cool summer evening. He sniffed the chilled air appreciatively. There were no summer winds like these in Casterly Rock.

About to shut the door on the faded mutterings, he heard something coming down the hall. A pair of bootsteps, stepping lightly and quickly, coming his direction. He stepped away from the door, leaving it open. He craned his neck to stargaze, as he waited for the young man. Even after ten months away, he knew the lad’s step.

He heard Jon Snow creak the door open and step out. Bringing his head down, he met the boy’s eyes…well, not really a boy anymore. He smiled as Jon came forward.

He brought his hand up for a shake. Jon strode past his hand and fiercely embraced him. Tiresias returned it, patting the lad’s back gently as he released him.

“It’s good to see you, Jon.” He clapped Jon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry it took me so long to return.”

“‘S all right,” said Jon. His eyes were wider than Arya’s. “How…how did you…”

Tiresias raised his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you, Robb and Theon haven’t badgered poor Jory for that story, aye?”

“Well, no…I mean, we did, but…” Jon seemed to be fighting for words. “He…he said you didn’t have any armor, Clegane broke your arm and you were forced to Casterly Rock and…”

His voice trailed off and he just stared up at him, back to the one question.

“How?”

Tiresias sighed. “I was very lucky, Jon. And very foolish.” He squeezed Jon’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you about it one day. If you insist. But not tonight…there are things I need to see to.”

He no longer had to kneel to meet Jon’s eyes. But he did bend down a little.

“But know this…if Clegane and I fought a hundred duels, he probably would have won ninety-nine of them. It was a close match and I barely survived. It wasn’t glorious. It was just what I felt I needed to do. Which didn’t make it any less foolish. Do you understand?”

Jon blinked. “I think so?”

Cursing his mediocre explanation, Tiresias straightened. “Well, in any case, I need to go and see to the other things. I have quite a bit of work to catch up on. So it’ll probably be another fortnight before I can get away in the evening to spar with you. Is that all right?”

“A spar?” Jon stated. “You’ll still want to spar with me? After you beat the Mountain?”

“Aye, I missed it all these months.” Tiresias smiled, before lowering his voice. “You and Arya been keeping up?”

“We have. She…she, um…” Jon rolled his sleeve to reveal a bruise on his forearm. “She gave me this.”

Tiresias whistled. “Lovely little gift.” He nodded back to the door. “You best get back. Good night, Jon.”

Jon nodded, striding to the Great Keep. He paused at the door though and looked back.

“Go,” said Tiresias, allowing himself a small laugh. “I’ll still be here in the morning. I swear.”

A small smile escaped the lad, before he disappeared. Tiresias listened until his boots faded away before turning and walking around the keep. He didn’t know if Mal was still serving in the kitchens, but he was sure that Maygen or Ginn would know where she was. Whether or not she would see him…

He halted. Once again, his pondering was interrupted by approaching footsteps. Coming around the Great Keep, from the main entrance. He counted three sets of footsteps; one too big, one too little and one that was just right…

_Aye, well, perhaps these three bears aren’t seeking you and your inflated sense of grandeur, mate._

However, he doubted that. He stepped into the light of a brazier and waited. Ten seconds later, the group rounded the corner and halted at the sight of him.

“Great shit!” exclaimed Gord. “You really are back.”

Tiresias smiled. “Hello Gord. Jory. Gendry.”

The big man laughed and rushed forward. Tiresias tried to prepare himself but he couldn’t help the little groan that escaped him as Gord picked him up in a bear hug. He heard Jory and Gendry approach as well.

Finally Gord put him down and gave his shoulder a punch. Not too lightly.

“I oughta fuckin’ strangle you for what you did, mate! What the fuck were you thinking? Gods, man, you have any idea what we thought when we heard the news?”

“Bet you called horseshit.” After Tiresias rubbed his shoulder, he stuck his hand out to Jory, who shook it vigorously. “Least ‘til this man arrived. Good to see you, Jory.”

“You as well, Tiresias.”

He turned to Gendry, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “Gendry, not too cold for you up here, right?”

Gendry shook his head. “Not yet. Forge is hot. Still have your jacket.”

“Keep it. Other lads treatin’ you fine?”

“Aye. They laugh at me accent, I laugh at theirs.”

“Good for you.”

“Tiresias,” said Jory, glancing at Gord before continuing. “Those items…I got them to Lord Stark and I put the other in your room.”

Tiresias exhaled, glad to have that weight off his mind. “Good. Thank you, Jory. I never doubted you.”

Gord snorted. “That’s fucking mysterious.”

The big man raised his hands as they looked to them. “Well, I’m not one to judge. I delivered something for you too, remember?”

“I do,” muttered Tiresias. “She get the threads then?”

“Aye, I put 'em right in her hands.”

“She liked them?”

Gord shrugged. “Aye, I think…she was…well, she was down when she saw you weren’t riding us. The threads…perked her a little…but then stories came from the south...you and the Mountain…”

Any levity left Gord as he shuffled his feet. “Best you speak to her yourself, mate.”

“I know.” Tiresias sighed. “I was looking for her now. She in the kitchens?”

Gord shook his head. “Nah. She don’t serve no more. Hadn’t for months. Works full-on for Mistress Bane. Probably in the servant quarters now.”

“All right,” murmured Tiresias, his heart beginning to race. He turned to Jory, scratching the back of his head.

“Have you been bombarded since you arrived back with folks wanting to know what the fuck happened in Deep Den?”

Jory shrugged. “Nah, people aren’t that curious.”

There was a silence. Even without the growing grins from Gendry and Gord.

Tiresias scoffed. “Oh, piss off.”

“You piss off.” Jory broke and laughed. “Aye, Tiresias. I’ve been asked many…many, many times what happened. From everyone. And so has Gendry.”

The grin on his face shrunk in a light grimace.

“I figured that. What’ve you been saying?”

“I spoke to Lord Stark first,” Jory said. “Told him all I could. Others…I mostly just said what was horseshit and what wasn’t.”

He turned to Gendry who shrugged.

“I didn’t even see the duel,” Gendry said. “Keep telling them that, but they keep asking. It’s not all bad though. Mikken makes them shut up if we’re in the forge. They don’t know I honed the blades that cut the Mountain down. I haven’t said. That helps.”

“Good,” muttered Tiresias. “Good, good…”

“Tiresias,” said Jory. “I told Mal…when I delivered your message, I told her what happened. Not as much as I told Lord, but…more than the others.”

A soft wind came from the west. Tiresias felt it kiss his face. Nobody said anything for a little while.

“I have somewhere I need to be,” he said.

“Aye, you do,” said Jory. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Tiresias mumbled, turning away. The servant quarters were in the northern part of the castle.

“Tiresias!” called Gord. He turned back to his tall friend, who seemed hesitant. “She’s been…she has been using the threads. The ones you got her.”

The western air continued to sing. Tiresias waited for Gord to elaborate. What was she making? Who was it for?

But Gord merely shrugged. “It’s what Ginn says anyway. She rooms with Maygen now.”

“Ginn?”

“No, you dolt. Mal. Mal rooms with Maygen now. Ginn lives with me, her husband.”

Tiresias swallowed. “Right. See you lot.”

He proceeded to the north of the castle, passing the Great Hall and crossing the welcoming courtyard, past the stables. The barest remnants of a summer snow remained, packed away in the corners.

Before long, he came to the servant’s quarters. The men lived on the ground floor and the women on the second floor. He stalled before the door. It wasn’t forbidden to enter. However it just didn’t seem right. He didn’t want to speak to her at her doorway. Where she had nowhere to escape, should she want to.

Resolving himself, he found a short barrel and sat. He looked to the stars and waited. Not for long though. Before a half hour passed, serving girls were returning from the Great Hall. A few stared at him as they passed, entering their quarters but he was only searching for one.

Maygen froze when she saw him. He stood and walked over to her, stopping at a respectful distance.

“Hello, Maygen.”

She nodded automatically. “Tiresias.”

“Is she in?”

There was no need to jerk his head back to the quarters or say her name. Maygen knew whom he was referring to.

“She was when I left to serve tonight,” she said quietly. “Sharpening the sewing needles…think she’s still at it.”

“Could you tell her I’m here, please?” asked Tiresias, saying the words he wanted to say for the past four months. He spoke more quietly than Maygen. “Tell her I want to speak to her…if she would hear me.”

Did Magyen hesitate before she nodded? A part of him thought she did. Nevertheless, she walked past him, pausing at the door.

“Wait here,” she said, before disappearing.

Tiresias was left alone with the western wind, gazing up at the stars.

_Less than a year ago…doing the exact same thing…waiting for her outside…_

This time though, he kept his ears alert. Determined to hear her steps again. To turn and see her brown eyes as she came out of the door. For the first time in ten months…

She didn’t come immediately. He stared at the stars, trying to make the time go faster. It didn’t. His heart pulsing quickly since he left the Great Hall slowed and punched gently in his ears. The minutes refused to go by quickly…

But they did go by. And finally Tiresias heard the soft platter of her shoes against the stone.

He turned back to the door and caught her coming out, her brown eyes shining in the moonlight, her hair tied back, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

She walked forward, stopping a fair distance from him. He closed the gap, stepping forward. As he came closer, she tucked her head. Tiresias halted. He heard her trying to control her breath.

He cleared his throat. “Hello, Mal.”

Mal didn’t raise her head. She didn’t say anything.

Tiresias looked behind him. Others were beginning to come down from their evening duties. He felt curious eyes centered on him. On her.

He turned back to Mal. “Do you want to talk somewhere more private?”

Without saying a word, she turned and walked, heading east. Tiresias followed her. They walked along the walls, past the kennels. The dogs only gave them a weary glance before falling back asleep.

It was only when they came to the underpass of a covered bridge, next to the tool sheds, that Mal halted and turned to him. Her eyes were still down though.

Tiresias stepped to her. “Mal, I’m…well, I’m back. And I’m very late. I know that.”

“Jory said your arm was broken.”

He nodded. “Aye, it was.”

Mal kept her eyes down. “Is it healed now?”

“It is.”

She lifted her head and Tiresias saw the anger in her eyes.

He saw the slap coming, but he didn’t defend himself. His cheek stung as he brought it back and faced her again. Mal began to hit him and not softly either. She struck his shoulders and his chest. He took it silently, not raising his arms.

Finally she stopped and backed away. Tears were at her eyes, but she didn’t cry out.

Tiresias rubbed the spots she struck. “Maybe you should have fought the Mountain instead of me.”

“Don’t you fucking gape! Not now!” she said, wiping her eyes.

He sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” she repeated, staring at him. “You’re sorry?”

She stepped up to him. “A few months to half a year. That’s what you promised. It’s been ten months.”

“I know.”

“Aye, I know you know! That makes it worse!” She wiped her eyes again. “You went down to King’s Landing. You chose to do that, knowing I was waiting. You went west, knowing I was waiting! And you fought the Mountain, _knowing _that I was waiting!”

“I did,” Tiresias muttered quietly.

She stared at him. “When you…when you volunteered to fight…did you think you’d win?”

“I didn’t think it likely, no.”

He didn’t hesitate to say so. Something in the air told him this was no time for bullshit.

Maybe it was just the look in Mal’s eyes. All the pain, worry, hurt and rage she’d felt over the past few months was shining though. It took a significant effort to not wither from her stare.

“You volunteered to die,” she said. She reached out and shoved him again. “For some stranger you didn’t even know!”

He took the shove. “I did my best not to.”

“You nearly did! Jory told me. He broke your arm, he had you by the throat, he…he…”

She wiped her eyes again furiously.

“You didn’t even wear armor!”

For the first time, she turned away, breathing trying to calm herself. Tiresias resisted the urge to go to her. She didn’t want him to. Not now. He didn’t need to sense her face heating from anger to know that.

After she collected herself, she turned back to him.

“Why did you even go to the Westerlands anyway? Why…why’d you even go to the capital?”

“Business for Lord Stark,” he remarked shortly.

A small unamused laugh escaped her. “Is that…is that the complicated work you spoke of?”

“It is.”

She breathed and exhaled, trying to calm herself.

“Did Lord Stark keep you away from Winterfell? More than the half year? Did he give you one complicated bit of work after another?”

Tiresias shook his head. “No…no, I acted on his behalf, but I…I was the one who decided to act.”

Mal scoffed lightly. “Do you also decide what you wanted when you were away? You had four extra months to think on it. Did it even cross your mind? Did I?”

“You did,” he murmured. “Many…many times.”

Tiresias reached into his pocket and pulled out the gift he commissioned in Harroway. He held out the tiny bundle of cloth. Mal eyed him as she took it. She unraveled the cloth to reveal a silver thimble. Pocketing the cloth, she placed the thimble on her thumb, turning it over lightly.

“It’s very nice,” she said, before looking back to him. “What you do mean by it?”

“I would like to be with you,” Tiresias stated softly. The words came out of him more easily than he expected. “I would, but Mal…”

He looked around and sighed. “The complicated work…I told you last time we talked that…that I was more than a librarian. Though, I’m sure everyone knows that by now.”

“So, what are you?” asked Mal, though she didn’t seem particularly interested in the answer.

“Someone who’s trying to prevent disaster from coming onto Westeros. I…” He sighed. “I foresaw a future for this country, this land and I came to Lord Stark to offer my services. Whatever I could do. For five years, that’s meant slowly preparing the North for what’s coming.”

“What’d you mean? How’d...how'd you see this future?”

“I dreamt it.”

Mal tried to scoff, but it died when she gazed back to him. There was no humor in his eyes. Soon there was none in hers.

“So, what’s coming?” she asked softly.

“I can’t say for now. You’ll find out soon. Everyone will.”

The tool shed creaked in the wind.

“The point is...I tried to move slow. To be unnoticed. To be no one of importance.” He shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I was so determined to be blind to your feelings.”

He flexed his fingers down at his waist.

“But this time around…things got out of my control. I acted as well as I could…but I was also impulsive. I’ve made enemies, Mal. And not just down south. In the North as well…”

Mal looked out to check that they were alone before she spoke.

“The bandits? Riding back from the Dreadfort?”

“They weren’t bandits, Mal,” he muttered quietly. He saw in her eyes that he didn’t have to mentioned Lord Bolton out loud.

“And with all that’s happened, a part of me…a very rational part of me believes that…I’m not suited for a woman and the comforts of a home. The people that I’ve antagonized…they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you to get to me. You know that. You’ve eyes and ears.

“But it’s not just that…I’ve done things, Mal. Things that…make me think I don’t deserve to be with anyone…to have anyone’s comfort. And with what I've done..."

He swallowed before continuing.

“I can’t wash it out, Mal. I can't wash out the bad...but I can’t wash out the good either. So I figure I have no choice…but do more good. Isolating myself, wallowing in that misery…it is what it is, but I figure I’d rather try and do good with someone. Try and…”

He sighed. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“Aye, you are,” she said. She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “You’d put me in danger, then?"

Tiresias nodded. “I’d be in danger too. This journey I took…slaying giants, sneaking about…it won’t be the last. My priority is the safety of Westeros. It includes you, but it’s not just you. I’ll be gone. Many times. With one task after another. It could be very dangerous and though I’d try…I couldn’t guarantee that I would come back.”

“From where?”

He shrugged. “Wherever I need to go.”

She kept her brown eyes on him. “Down south again?”

“One day. Probably.”

“To the Wall?”

“Beyond it if I need to.”

Another gust of wind buffeted them from the west.

“Essos?”

“I truly hope not. But I would.”

He thought of Ser Davos and the wife he was forever absent from. Ser Davos was a good man. As good as a man could be in this place and time. He still left her in the Stormlands. Risked his life for kings and causes he had no ties to…

_Did his wife seethe in anger over her husband’s exploits?_

“I did think of you,” he said quietly. “I truly did. Even when I ventured farther from Winterfell and took up arms against that monster, I did think of you. I barely came out of it, but it was easier when I had the North as a beacon. The winds, the library, you...”

_You and your brown eyes._

He couldn’t voice that last part. He could only look further into them. There was a strength there that extended to the rest of her. She didn’t even seem bothered by the chilled wind.

“It won’t be easy. Being with me. I can’t imagine that appeals to you. I’m certain that you thought being wife to a mere librarian means more stable ground to stand on. That won’t be the case with me. You got…you got a very rude lesson on that during these past ten months. I’m sorry for that. But that’s a very possible future for us. Should you still want to be with me.”

His head dropped as he said those words. Swallowing, he worked up the nerve to ask the question and met her gaze.

“Would you be with me then? Knowing that?”

Silence ensued between them, but Mal didn’t drop her eyes and continued to look at him. Despite everything, he found it easy to meet them.

He had missed those brown eyes.

Without another word, she turned and walked off. Tiresias was about to sigh when he heard her stop.

She turned back. “What was the worst thing you did? The thing that made you think you shouldn’t be with anyone?”

True fear billowed up inside of him. He saw fear in her as well, but she had a steely resolve. Stronger than him at any rate.

“Do you need to hear that answer?” he asked.

She glanced to the ground, before coming up to him. “Was it rape?”

“No.”

“Murder?”

He swallowed. “Aye.”

The wind quieted and he heard his heart pounding in the silence. He expected Rosie’s face to flash before him but he only saw Mal, her gaze unblinking.

“Was it necessary?” she asked softly.

He sighed. “I thought it was. When I did it. But now…I don’t know, Mal. I don’t know.”

Mal didn’t respond to that, only regarding him. He couldn’t read her. Her face remained impassive.

Finally she turned and walked away in the night. Her feet didn’t hit the ground with anger or disgust. In fact, she strode calmly, not looking back and this time, Tiresias was the one who watched her leave without an answer.

_Ah well, it’s least you deserve._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Tiresias is finally back in Winterfell!
> 
> Like I said last time, I'm going to publish one more chapter before I go into a writing hiatus. Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond my control, Ch. 36 will probably won't be published next Tuesday, October 6th. I'll work on this all the weekend, but I have other obligations and so I'll set the publishing date for Tuesday, October 13th. If any earlier, it will be a pleasant surprise. But don't get your hopes up.
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments and the kudos! See you on a Tuesday in the near future!
> 
> Don't read the following if you want to keep your own image of Mal in your head...
> 
> Anyway, I wanted to give a picture of Mal. She was eighteen when Tiresias first came to Winterfell. I've pictured her looking like Luana Bajrami from Portrait of a Lady on Fire. For reference, here's a link.
> 
> https://www.hollywud.me/tile/still_frame/187857
> 
> Tiresias is now about thirty in Ch. 35. If you want an age reference. He lost track of his birthday.


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

There was a noted tension when Tiresias proceeded to Lord Stark’s solar the next day. The first time they spoke, his walk here was closely watched. A guard of four escorting him from the courtyard. As the years passed and he became a part of the castle, the guards relaxed at the door, exchanging nods with him as he passed.

Today, that guarded look was back. It wasn’t adversarial. It wasn’t even the same look he received from his Lannister escort to the Rock. It was simply…more suspicious, more probing. In their eyes, Tiresias was merely the librarian who left a little less than a year ago and he returned looking much the same.

The stories claimed he killed a monster…but he still looked the same…

Thankfully Tiresias didn’t have to be alone with those looks. He was announced as soon as he approached. Lord Stark gave his permission and Tiresias entered his solar.

Having just returned from the midday meal himself, Ned wasn’t in the middle of any work. The Lord of Winterfell simply sat, waiting for him. He gestured for Tiresias to sit, which he did, gratefully so.

There was no fire in the hearth to break the silence. He heard clinks outside from the forge though and a slight wind caressed the castle.

_But no waves…gods, I miss the sea already._

He brought his mind back to Winterfell. Ned reached into his desk and pulled out a sealed letter, holding it up for Tiresias to see. It was his letter, the one he wrote before the duel in Deep Den. He regarded it, frowning slightly. It was so slim. He swore he had written more than that…

“Do I need to read this?” asked Lord Stark. “Now that you’ve returned?”

Tiresias shook his head. Without any hesitation, Ned put the letter to a lit candle. A moment of silence followed as they watched Tiresias’ prophetic warnings burn. Lord Stark placed the flaming parchment on a metal plate and there it curled into ash.

He turned back to Ned, but the Lord of Winterfell was already looking to him.

“What you set out to achieve,” Ned began. “I assumed from your message from White Harbor that you succeeded. Is that true?”

Tiresias nodded. “Ramsay’s dead. I buried him myself. Deep in the Lonely Hills.”

“Were there any witnesses?”

His pulse shot up, but he remained calm. He swallowed and shook his head.

“No…no, I saw to that.”

Ned reached into his desk and pulled out a letter. He handed it to Tiresias. His eyes fell to the dried wax; pink, in the form of a flayed man.

“I wrote to Lord Bolton after I received your note,” Lord Stark said as Tiresias unfolded the letter. “That was his response.”

Tiresias scanned the letter quickly; a polite and concerned inquiry about the librarian’s health and whereabouts, a measured outrage at bandits in his territory and a promise to deal with said bandits quickly and effectively.

There was also an appreciation for Lord Stark’s concern over Ramsay. The search was still on, as of the writing of the letter.

“So…were there any bandits?”

Tiresias gave back the letter. “No. Lord Bolton suspects me. Don’t know how it got started, but he does.”

He leaned back in the chair and briefly recounted his bout with Bolton’s hunters, the attempt at sabotage, the swim down the White Knife.

“After I killed the dogs, I decided to go east. Come back to Winterfell another way. ‘S how I ended up in White Harbor.”

“How’d you know the man who approached you belonged to Lord Bolton?”

“I saw him in my vision.” Tiresias shrugged. “Even without that, his scent was familiar. Smelled liked the Dreadfort. And he was far too friendly to me.”

He exhaled. “In any case, if whatever I did in the Dreadfort aroused Lord Bolton’s suspicions, then me escaping his hunters and killing his hounds probably confirmed them. He’s very sure that I had something to do with Ramsay’s disappearance…and I don’t know if he thinks that you’re involved as well.”

A line appeared in Ned’s forehead. Tiresias bowed his head, a weight settling into his stomach.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t have to say why.

A brief silence fell before Ned spoke.

“Is there any evidence that you killed Ramsay?”

Tiresias raised his head. “No.”

“Did any of his hunters identify themselves as Bolton’s men?”

“No.”

Lord Stark regarded Bolton’s letter before filing it away.

“He wrote and confirmed that it was bandits who pursued you. He's following your story. He can’t commend House Stark openly or rebel…so we’ll handle anything else he tries. Sabotage, extortion…”

“Spies in Winterfell,” suggested Tiresias. He swallowed. “Just a thought. Don’t know how many new servants you’ve employed here in the last six months or so.”

“I’ll speak to Vanyon Poole. Make an inquiry and tell him to be careful with any future hires in the castle. And you stay sharp as well. I don’t believe Lord Bolton would use anyone you’d possibly recognize, but all the same, keep an eye out.”

_And my nose as well._ The Dreadfort had a particular smell to it. And a feel that everyone seemed to carry. Even Maester Wolkan.

“So,” said Lord Stark, leaning back. “May I ask now, what possessed you to sail to King’s Landing?”

Tiresias sighed. “An oil merchant.”

Ned’s eyebrows rose. “An oil merchant?”

As he spoke of King’s Landing, he kept to Gendry. He relayed his visit to the Street of Steel, Tobho Mott, his conversations with Varys, the stories he relayed with the spymaster. Lord Stark showed no surprise at the mention of Gendry’s father. He supposed he read the note that went north with the rest of the Stark soldiers.

When he reached their departure from King’s Landing, Ned unlocked a smaller drawer in the desk. He took out a wrapped object and began to unfurl it gently.

“Tell me, Tiresias,” he said as he held up the Valyrian steel dagger. “Did you get this from the Street of Steel as well?”

Tiresias took a moment to gaze at it. He hadn’t laid eyes on it in months. Not since the treasure room. It remained wrapped and hidden as he crept out of the Red Keep through the caves, stalking King’s Landing in the early predawn. Not even in the safety of the Purple Rose did he gaze upon his prize.

Finally he shook his head. “Nah, I stole that.”

“I know that.” Ned took a moment and sighed. “You delivered to me a stolen treasure from the Crown.”

“The Crown doesn’t need Valyrian steel. The North does.” Tiresias nodded towards the dagger. “Trust me. In the right hands…that blade could make all the difference.”

“And whose hands were you planning to arm with stolen steel?”

Tiresias’ mouth was too dry to swallow. “Working on that.”

He didn’t know how many non-answers he could get away with today. Even a conservative amount was pushing it. Ned’s forehead lined deeper, but he placed the dagger down with a sigh.

“This will be hidden,” Lord Stark said, wrapping it back up and putting it away. “I’ll won’t tell you where. If the day comes when you need this, for yourself or anyone else…you’ll have to convince me.”

There was no room for disagreement there. Tiresias nodded.

“Fair enough.” He sighed. “And Gendry? Have you told him yet? Who he is?”

“Aye,” said Lord Stark. “I told him soon after he arrived. He didn’t ask me though. I was the one who summoned the lad. Sat him down there.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Quietly. When I offered anything beyond a blacksmith apprenticeship and position; marital training, reading and writing lessons, he didn’t respond. Told me he’d think on it…and I haven’t spoken to him since.”

Tiresias nodded. The lad seemed more comfortable in the forge than a lord’s solar or a king’s castle.

_At least for now…we’ll see if that changes._

“I’ll speak to him myself later.” He glanced at Ned. “What was Lady Stark’s reaction? To another bastard residing in Winterfell?”

Ned’s nostrils flared slightly. He answered calmly enough though.

“Nothing. Just another apprentice for Mikken. I haven’t spoken to her about him. But there’s no need as of now. While he considers his future. Besides, she doesn’t scorn a bastard in the forge. If we only staffed servants from legitimate marriages, this castle couldn’t run.”

“I bet,” Tiresias muttered. He wondered if Mal’s parents were wed. She never said…

_Focus, man. That’s out of your hands now._

He snapped back to Ned, but the Lord of Winterfell was gazing silently at him. From the look in his eyes, he knew that they had come to it at last.

Ned took a breath. “What happened with Clegane?”

Tiresias knew he didn’t mean the play-by-play of the duel. Jory had filled him in on that.

“I rode ahead of Clegane into the Westerlands. Jory and Gendry insisted on joining me. I had hoped to keep some distance between our parties. Be seen further down the Goldroad, so when I doubled back…and somehow killed him, it would have been a mysterious assailant who fell Ser Gregor and I would have been miles away, according to witnesses.

“Now, that…obviously didn’t happened. I’m sure Jory told you what happened with the innkeeper and Lord Lydden, the duel and the Lannisters.”

“I received your letter from Casterly Rock,” said Ned, his eyes drifting again to his pile of letters. “Is there anything you couldn’t put to quill?”

Tiresias briefly considered the new details of his backstory he told Tywin over dinner, but he shook his head.

“Not particularly. I was questioned, sure. But other than that, it was a relaxing month and a half. I was wined and dined. And then I transported eleven tomes of the Old Tongue back from their library, which is why I went there in the first place.”

Ned raised his eyebrows. “Pardon?”

“It’s the story that Lord Tywin demanded for his hospitality and my safe departure. I was not compelled to Casterly Rock against my will. I graciously accepted the Lannister escort and rode there to see to their library. To seek donations.”

He scratched his ear. “Considering the value of those tomes, I think I got a steal. Anyway, that’s the official story. The only one Tywin wants to hear.”

Ned looked ready to object but thought better of it. He had to stay on course.

“Why did the Mountain have to die?”

Tiresias stared at him. “Aside from his general atrocities?”

“If you killed every Westerosi who has committed atrocities, you’d be busy the rest of your days,” said Ned, containing his frustration as well as he could. “Jory had strict instructions to escort you back to Winterfell. His instructions were my command to you. You were to come north under guard.”

“I saw an opportunity.”

“For what?” asked Ned. “I don’t believe we’re halfway prepared for the White Walkers. You’re still needed here. And you nearly got killed, fighting a man who has no bearing in Winterfell, at the Wall or anywhere else in the North!”

“I won.”

“Aye and I’m grateful for that. But it still brings consequences. The south was content to forget us. Forget the North while we worked and prepared for what’s coming. But you’ve brought their attention here to Winterfell. To my home. To my family. When you challenged Clegane. When you acted in my name in King’s Landing…”

Ned paused and breathed. His voice remained low, but his eyes glanced to the door. The guards were still outside.

“I’ve received letters from Jon Arryn, asking me to account for your actions. Stannis Baratheon wrote me as well, inquiring me about the dragonglass trade, after years of contentment. And it’s not just the south. My bannermen wrote me too, asking about you. You won’t be able to hide away in the library shelves and my protection…I don’t what it’s worth anymore. Killing the Mountain…that’s something you can’t walk back from.”

Tiresias braced himself, making sure there was no animosity in his tone.

“You killed Ser Arthur Dayne,” he said. “One-on-one. So they say. And that man was more a legend than Clegane ever will be. You’ve managed to return here. Maintain some normalcy. As far as a Warden could maintain it.”

“Howland Reed was the only witness to that,” Ned responded. He scoffed lightly. “And you somehow. You slew Clegane in front of Lords, soldiers, a Septon…there's no mystery to your victory.”

He leaned forward.

“And you said it yourself, Tiresias. I am a Warden. There are few who can challenge me. I can return from a war and the whispers that follow me…they’ll remain just that; whispers. But you…even with me behind you, there are many who would question your actions, try to test you. Could you train in private anymore? I’m sure the soldiers will want to test you. What about my bannermen? You can't hide away during the feasts anymore. Your absence will noticed.”

Ned leaned back and sighed.

“I don’t know how much I can shield you from that. I hadn’t prepared for my librarian to return home a famous warrior.”

He stopped and rubbed his brow, before dropping his hand.

“Tiresias…I’m relieved that you won. And I’m not saying that the Mountain didn’t deserved to die. From how Jory described it, it was a noble act. But you chose to end Clegane in the most public manner possible. On a whim. And while doing so, you involved one of my most loyal men in a southern dispute along with a royal bastard you swore that we’d protect. You sacrificed your secrecy.

“So tell me, what was this opportunity you saw? How did it trump everything else?”

Tiresias glanced to his right arm. A memory of the break shot through and he suppressed a shudder.

“I don’t know what kind of role the Mountain have played in this new world of ours,” he stated softly. “But I believe the same thing would have happened. Too many people would lose their lives trying to kill that monster.”

He sighed. “I think I also did it for the same reason I dealt with Ramsay. Ramsay can no longer be Roose’s mad dog. And Gregor can no longer be Tywin’s mad dog. I don’t despise all Lannisters, but when it comes to Tywin…he was a strong adversary...against everyone. So I’ll take every opportunity I have to whittle his power down.”

“Clegane’s death will not deter Tywin,” Ned stated evenly. “He still has his armies, his gold and Casterly Rock.”

Tiresias shrugged. “He does, but we shouldn’t underestimate the power of a mascot. His armies may be substantial, but soldiers from opposing sides will find it easier to charge men their own size.

“As for the gold and Casterly Rock,” he continued. “Well, those aren’t as secure as he would have others believe.”

Luckily Lord Stark wasn’t interested in Tywin’s holdings today. He saw Ned move that non-answer aside for another day. Tiresias nodded to the letters.

“What did Lord Stannis say? About the dragonglass?”

Ned handed him the letter from the iron-willed Baratheon. “He asked for a sample of what we’ve been trading to our hill tribes.”

Tiresias peered at the neat scribble. “What did you send him?”

“An arrowhead. Light enough so the raven could fly with it.”

Going through the letter, Tiresias didn’t see anything nefarious. It was straight and to the point. Lord Stannis inquired about him, his victory over Clegane and then continued on to the dragonglass without so much a connecting sentiment.

Stannis ended the letter, stating that he was leaving for Dragonstone to see to his wife and daughter. And other matters, including the next shipment of dragonglass.

Tiresias looked up to Ned, who anticipated his question.

“The shipments continued according to schedule. We still send a light shipment to the Wall. As for us, in the crypts, I estimate we have eighty thousand arrowheads, thirty thousand dagger blades, sixty thousand spearheads and five thousand axeheads.”

“We need more.” Tiresias placed the letter back, his fingers shaking slightly. “If he decides not to continue this trade, for whatever reason…”

“We’ll handle it,” Ned finished for him. There was no plan, just a simple affirmation to deal with it, should it arise.

The Lord of Winterfell stood and walked to the pitchers. “Ale?”

Tiresias shook his head. “I’m not thirsty.”

After pouring himself a horn, Ned walked to the table, where the maps always laid open. Understanding the silent request, Tiresias stood and joined him.

“The harvests are the only thing that haven’t been disrupted,” Ned said. “Our original stores are now full. They’ll last us five years. Perhaps six if we’re careful. The Broken Stores now sit at two-thirds full capacity. And the imports from Reach begin in six months. Within two years, we should be full there as well. Then we’ll start topping off the stores in every Northern hold we can.”

“That’s good news,” Tiresias muttered. His fingers traced the Wall, coming to a rest at Castle Black. “Five years of food…you’re not taking into account over one hundred thousand Free Folk coming south of the Wall, are you?”

Ned’s mouth lined as he shook his head. “No.”

Tiresias leaned over the table. “Well, it'll certainly make a dent. I don’t suppose we can ask Maester Luwin for that calculation just yet.”

“Benjen will meeting directly with Mance in a month.”

He stared at Ned. “Does the Night’s Watch know that?”

“Only a few. The Lord Commander and a few other chosen officers.” Ned took a draught. “We’ll wait until he comes back to move on to the wildings. He’ll visit Winterfell after the parlay.”

After he lowered his horn, he turned to Tiresias.

“Anything else to report?”

Tiresias shook his head. “No, my Lord. I should…I should get back to the library. I’ll be working until late this evening to catch up on all I missed. And for many evenings after that…”

“You were gone for ten months.” Ned walked to his desk and sat. “But you certainly didn’t come back empty-handed.”

Tiresias smiled grimly. “No, my Lord. Tomes, a king’s bastard, stolen steel…eyes from the south.”

“Eyes from all of Westeros, Tiresias.”

And his smile was gone. He waited, but he didn’t sense any accusation or animosity behind Ned’s words. The Warden just seemed tired and worried.

Finally Lord Stark sighed and nodded. Tiresias sensed the dismissal, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He stood rooted to the floor.

“What is it?” asked Lord Stark.

“There’s actually one more thing,” Tiresias muttered. He swallowed before continuing. “On the way back, going through the Neck…I got a message from Lord Reed.”

“What did Howland say?”

“His son, Jojen…he’s a greenseer as well. He and his father…they seem to believe that our timeline has been shortened.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that my actions have pushed things forward. Whether it’s the White Walkers, the Free Folk and the Night’s Watch, the war in the south…”

Again, he omitted Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons.

_The dragons aren’t born yet. There’s no red comet in the sky…_

“It will happen sooner than I anticipated. My vision, all that I’ve foreseen…it’ll soon be useless. And we’ll be on our own.”

Lord Stark looked to his desk, taking it in. Tiresias stood still, waiting. The wind was gone. He could no longer heard it singing against the castle walls.

Fortifying himself with a breath, Ned raised his head, meeting his eyes.

“Well, make use of it while you can.”

* * *

He was fortunate in a way. Catching up on ten months of busy work gave him an excellent excuse not to move frivolously around the castle. He stayed in the library from breakfast to bedtime. He burned more candles in the first sennight than he usually did in a month.

It did take his mind off things. At many points, he forgot about not just Deep Den, but the Lonely Hills as well. He was merely the castle librarian again.

However, the work didn’t completely insulate him. He still had to eat. It was easy for breakfast and the midway meal. If he arrived a little earlier, he could take his food up. However, during supper, he ate in the Great Hall with everyone else.

Barth was reliably silent and so Tiresias gravitated toward him most evenings for a dinner partner. However, the brewer seemed close to inquiring about his exploits. His pauses in-between bites were more substantial.

And murmurs followed him still. Every evening, a couple of house guards or soldiers would join him and Barth, inquiring about his story. Tiresias kept to the facts and spoke succinctly. A few soldiers got the hint and shut up about it. Most others didn’t.

Gord came to his rescue one evening. As Tiresias trudged toward dinner, he heard the big man coming up behind him. A large arm wrapped around his shoulder and steered him away from the Great Hall.

“Hello, Gord,” asked Tiresias, not peeved at this development. “Where are we going?”

“My home,” said Gord, eyes ahead. “Ginn made too much stew for three, so you’ll be joining me, her and me mum for supper.”

A relieved sigh escaped Tiresias before he could help it.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Gord clapped his shoulder. “Forget it. We never had you over before.”

Twenty minutes later, Tiresias was handed a bowl of venison stew and a chunk of seed-bread, with only three pairs of friendly eyes for company. Instead of hundreds of curious ones.

He sat next to Gord’s mother, who sat nearest to the fire. She and Ginn tried to get him to sit there but he refused. Gord backed him up, citing his comfort with the cold. Ginn was amiable as she ever was. She greeted him warmly upon his return. She had questions too, like everyone else in Winterfell. But she concealed them well.

Conversation at their table flowed smoothly enough. And it was only when their bowls were empty that Ginn, leaning against Gord, addressed the lurking subject at hand.

“You talked to Mal, didn’t you?” asked Ginn softly.

The fire crackled. Tiresias swallowed and nodded.

“First night I returned. She was…” He exhaled through his nose. “She was quite angry with me.”

Keeping locked away in the library gave him limited glimpses of her. Whenever he did see her, he heard no whispers from her and met no stares. She ignored him as he walked by and focused on her work. A part of him felt her glancing to him once he passed. But it was probably his imagination.

She kept her brown eyes away from him.

“Aye,” said Ginn, nodding. She shrugged. “We were angry with you too, you know.”

“Worried’s more like, dear,” said Gord.

“Aye, we can be worried and angry all at the same time.” Ginn sighed. “Tiresias…when you didn’t come back with Gord and the next thing we heard was…well, it was that. You, the Mountain…it was unbelievable and Mal…it wasn’t something she was prepared for. She’s strong, but she needs to prepare for it. And having naught but rumors trickle in from the south…until Jory came home, we didn’t know for sure what had happened. Were you hurt? Were you tied and dragged west by the Lannisters? Did you volunteer to marry the poor girl to save her reputation? We didn’t know. We doubted much of it, but we didn’t know and it worried us. It worried her. It was nothing she expected from you.”

Tiresias rested his hand on his cup, staring into it. No one spoke for a bit.

“Have I botched it?” he asked quietly. “I meant to be back. I truly did…but I couldn’t keep my word.”

He raised his eyes and looked at Ginn and Gord. “What’d you think?”

“What was her answer? The night you returned?”

Tiresias turned to his side. The question came from Gord’s mother.

_Tara_, he told himself. _She has a name. It’s Tara._

“She didn’t answer. We talked…she yelled at me, but when it calmed and I said what I needed to say, she didn’t say yes or no. Just walked off.”

Tara turned to Gord and Ginn.

“That time when you lot knew nothin’ and it was confusing and frightening…if she didn’t want to fight for him, she would’ve thrown him away. Right when if he walked through them gates. Would’ve said no.”

She turned back to him.

“She hadn’t said it.” Tara shrugged. “Hadn’t said aye, either. I haven’t seen her much. Saw her at the wedding with you. You two dance well together. And you have the same look about you.”

“What’d you mean?” asked Tiresias softly.

Tara looked at him directly. “You think things through. Mostly. Seems like that’s what she’s doin’ now. Muddling through all she learned ‘bout you. But she hadn’t said no. She hadn’t said no.”

With that, Tara raised her cup and drank. Tiresias lowered his eyes again, his fingers idling about his own cup.

Ginn cleared her throat and patted Gord’s arm. “Love, why don’t you go and take Tiresias to the tavern? Have a bit of a nightcap?”

Gord squeezed her gently. “Only a bit?”

She smiled, scratching his beard. “Aye, only a bit.”

“All right, then. So m’lady commands.” Gord stood and stretched. “C’mon then, mate. To a tempered evening out.”

Tiresias almost excused himself, but stood to join him. The library would wait for a night and he really wanted a drink. Thanking Ginn for the lovely dinner, he followed Gord out into Wintertown.

The tavern didn’t provide nearly as many curious eyes as there were in Winterfell. Tiresias did feel a few stray to him as they entered. But it wasn’t overwhelming. Gord and Tiresias took an end of a table and soon they were clinking full mugs.

“So,” Tiresias said, wiping his mouth. “When can we start sparring again?”

Gord raised his eyebrows. “You still wanna do that?”

“Aye, I do. What? Just because I killed one tall bastard doesn’t mean I’ll won't go after another.”

“That’s funny.” Gord lowered his tankard, looking somewhat serious.

“What?”

“It’ll be different, you know,” Gord muttered. He leaned forward. “I know you, mate…somewhat. Well, I do know you hate crowds, onlookers…our bouts, if we do them again…it won’t be like before. You’re gonna draw a crowd. House guards, soldiers, servants, the Stark children…they’ll want to see how you killed the Mountain.”

Tiresias breathed through his nose. Gord voiced something he’d been fearing ever since he rode from Casterly Rock. His training…it wasn’t a spectacle. Not something to be admired. It was just something he needed to do.

_You still need to do it. They’re coming and they’re coming quick. Whatever happens, you must be stronger. Is that necessity less important than your discomfort with an audience?_

He looked to Gord and shrugged.

“So be it.”

Gord raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I won’t call attention to it if you won’t…but I do need to train.” He scoffed. “Need to prepare for every shitheel who wants to test me. See if I really killed the Mountain.”

His nostrils caught an unwelcomed and familiar scent staggering toward them. Gord saw him too, his eyes drifting over his shoulder.

“Speaking of which...” he muttered.

A hand clapped Tiresias on the back.

“Tiresias!” cheered Tadd loudly as he sat down next to him.

“Hello Tadd,” said Gord amiably enough. His smile didn’t extend to his eyes.

“Hey there, Gord!” Tadd placed his arm around his shoulder, laughing. Tiresias tried not to wince at his breath.

“I gotta say,” he slurred. “I knew it! I knew yeh weren’t some…some fuckin’ pansy cocksucker just mincin’ about. Yeh sneaky shit, yeh…”

“Tadd,” Gord said gently, still wearing a smile. “Be a good lad and piss off, all right?”

Tadd blinked, staring at him, before laughing.

“Oh come on, now,” He shook Tiresias’ shoulder. “He knows I’m gapin’. We’ve done this, right? Fuckin’ just…”

“Tadd…” Gord lost his smile.

“Just don’t tell me to piss off!” Tadd pointed a finger. “Don't! It’s all right, right? Tiresias, ye top cunt, tell us it’s all right!”

“Tadd,” Tiresias said softly. “I told you before…never to touch me again. I haven't change my mind on that. So take your hand off me. And piss off.”

He took a draught, waiting.

But Tadd didn’t remove his hand.

“Yeh know,” Tadd mumbled, bringing his face closer than ever. “When yeh fought him, the Mountain…I ‘eard…yeh cried at the end…like a fuckin’ wench. A bitch.”

Tiresias shook his head slightly at Gord, who looked ready to grab Tadd. He breathed, trying not to smell his drunken neighbor.

“Not immune to pain, Tadd,” he said, plastering on a small smile. “Don’t suppose I’m much of a man.”

“Nah,” Tadd muttered. “Yeh not, right? ‘Cause I ‘eard other things too, yeh know. Before yeh left…”

He took a draught before continuing.

“Whores talk, yeh know. They see things…” He grinned. “All sorts of…things. Big things, small things, thick things, knobby things…yeh know what I mean?”

“Not really, Tadd. Bit too subtle for me,” said Tiresias, his eyes straight ahead.

“‘Nother whore…not that fat one yeh liked. ‘Nother. Walked in. Saw ye thing, mate and…and…some of it’s gone!”

Tadd devolved into laughter, clasping his shoulder for support. Tiresias just focused on his breathing. He heard Gord clench his jaw. The lone laughter continued for a solid ten seconds, before Tadd refocused.

“Wot? Yeh didn’t hear me? Said it’s gone!”

“Funny joke,” said Tiresias. He didn’t think it possible for two words to sound so sardonic.

“Aye, well, see…I don’t think it’s a joke…mate.” Tadd’s fingers dug into his shoulder. “Yeh cry like a bitch. Yeh missing ye cock. Yeh a woman. And a woman…didn’t kill the Mountain. Just a story. Yeh surrounded by stories up in that tower…it’s all yeh know…”

He took another draught, ale trickling into his beard. “Does Mal know...that yeh a bitch?”

“Tadd…” growled Gord.

“If she does…wot d’yeh two do, then?” Tadd continued, coming even closer. “D’yeh…what? Lick her cunt while she lick yours…”

Tiresias brought his left arm up quickly, pushing off Tadd’s grip. Reaching over, he grabbed Tadd's hair and slammed his head down to the table, standing up over him. Tadd wriggled and tried to get free, but his right hand was pinned behind him.

Red flashed in his eyes. He twisted Tadd’s head, grinding his face into the table. Enraged moans escaped the man…

“What is this?! Enough!”

He turned to see Ser Rodrik coming toward them. Realizing he’d forgotten to breathe, he inhaled as the Master of Arms came to a halt before them.

“Tiresias, release him! Immediately!”

Tiresias did so, not stepping away as Tadd pressed himself up from the table. The man glanced at Ser Rodrik, before gazing to the floor.

Ser Rodrik looked to the three of them. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Tiresias didn’t trust himself to speak. He didn’t want to. He just breathed. The red he saw pulsed slower and slower.

Tadd raised his head and shrugged. “Just a…just a discussion…got outta hand.”

Ser Rodrik looked to Tiresias. “Is that true?”

He couldn’t answer. He didn’t want to confirm this shitheap’s excuse, but he also didn’t want to justify his urge to pound Tadd into pulp...

_No…no, I don’t want that. I can’t feed that._

“No,” Gord spoke. All turned to him as he cleared his throat. He was trying to calm himself too.

“Tiresias and I were drinking by ourselves when Tadd came and sat himself down. He ignored our request to leave. He insulted Tiresias and a…good friend of his.”

_Good friend…is that what she is now, Gord?_

“That’s when…that’s when he put Tadd to the table, Ser Rodrik.”

Tadd turned to glare at Gord, but Gord didn’t even flinch. Tiresias heard his pulse. It was slowing to a steady beat.

Ser Rodrik turned to Tadd.

“You’re too drunk to hear me now. But you’ll be dealing with your punishment on the morrow during the drills, mark my words. This isn’t your first drunken bout, Tadd. There weren’t tolerated and this won’t be any different. I’ll make sure you understand that. One or another.

“And you,” he said, turning to Tiresias. “You’re no soldier and it’s not in your best interest to start brawling with them. Spars in the training yard are one thing. But not this. If you have a problem with a soldier of Winterfell, you bring it to Jory or me. Understand?”

Tiresias swallowed a protest and nodded. He just wanted this to be done.

“All right,” said Ser Rodrik, stepping between them. “The two of you. Shake hands and go your separate ways. Now.”

Tadd scoffed, but under the glare from Ser Rodrik, he slowly stuck his hand out. Ser Rodrik turned to him.

“Shake, Tiresias.”

Tiresias stepped forward, hand out. As Tadd went to grasp it, he reached up and embraced Tadd fiercely, holding him tight. The man didn’t struggle. He seemed shocked. He allowed Tiresias to grab his head, turning his ear to him.

“You,” Tiresias said in a hoarse whisper, speaking into his ear. “You…have…nothing.”

He spoke slowly, enunciating every word, making sure Tadd’s inebriated brain held onto them.

“You…are…nothing.”

With that, he let go immediately. Tadd stared at him confused, before Ser Rodrik grabbed his shoulder.

“All right, leave. Now!” he said.

Tiresias’ eyes were on the floor, but he heard Tadd stalk away. When he raised his head, Ser Rodrik was still there, meeting his gaze pensively.

He couldn’t help a light scoff. “Not a soldier, aye? Not even after felling the Mountain?”

“A quick dagger doesn’t make a man a soldier,” Ser Rodrik answered evenly. “A soldier follows. You’re too much of a lone wolf.”

He turned to the serving maid, who was hovering about nervously. “Lass, bring me a horn, aye?”

She nodded and scurried off. He turned back to Tiresias.

“Doesn’t mean you’re no fighter, though. A smart, brave and able warrior.” He shrugged. “So says my nephew. Gave him quite the spectacle, didn’t you?”

“Wasn’t my intention,” Tiresias said quietly. “To make a spectacle.”

Ser Rodrik smiled grimly. The serving maid returned with his horn.

“Whatever your intention, you acted well. Foolishly, but well. And you did a great deed, riding the Kingdoms of that abomination.”

He raised his drink, nodding to Tiresias’ mug. “Join me for a toast? You as well, Gord.”

Tiresias heard Gord pick up his mug. He absent-mindedly fetched his own and raised it, meeting the knight’s eyes.

“To Tiresias,” stated Ser Rodrik. “The librarian who downed the Mountain.”

“To Tiresias!”

He blinked. It wasn’t just Gord who answered the toast. Others, who had witnessed the scuffle, had their eyes and ears on Ser Rodrik as he made the toast. A dozen other voices from the nearby tables echoed his name.

Remembering that he had to drink, he tipped his tankard up and finished his ale. He placed it upside on the table, as did Ser Rodrik. The old knight nodded as he pivoted.

“Have a good evening, men,” he said before walking away.

He stood dazed, barely registering Gord as he came behind and slung his arm over his shoulder.

“Won’t be the last toast you hear, mate. I promise you that.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Tiresias dully.

Gord sighed before clapping his shoulder. “We should leave, aye? Think that counts as a bit of a nightcap.”

A lethargy almost consumed him as he walked with Gord back through Wintertown. It wasn’t the toast though that slowed him. It was the scuffle that kept going through his head. The energy was still there. It had to get out or it would curdle.

He couldn’t just go to bed tonight. He had put it off long enough.

They walked past Gord’s hut and his friend left him to wander back to the castle. There were no goodnights exchanged. It wasn’t that sort of evening.

The guard let him through with barely a glance. A marked improvement. In fact, at this moment, everyone in the castle was indoors and it made for a peaceful, cold summer evening. With no murmurs to follow him to the back of the stables.

_The construction on the Broken Stores was completed long ago. It should be available…_

And it was. His little gym that he constructed years ago. A little dusty but it stood still and ready, not being disturbed. He wondered whether it was just because the space was still unused.

_Or had they been saving it for me?_

It didn’t matter though. Despite his current modest inebriation, he was still able to exercise. He had to start again somewhere. He stripped off his shirt and began to stretch, playing close attention to his right arm.

_No sense in breaking you again, aye? Just when I got you back. You were grand when you rubbed Tadd’s face in the table._

He cursed the thought immediately.

_Don’t do that. Don’t indulge in that shit! Focus on your body. Focus on the White Walkers and any others you’ll face. Tadd is nothing, remember? Don’t lose yourself in nothing!_

After he stretched, he centered himself, breathing calmly. He gazed up. The frame he gripped for pull-ups was there still, the woods worn smooth from his grip.

Bending his knees, he leapt and grabbed it, holding himself steady in the air. He allowed a few seconds to simply hang, feeling the familiar stretch down his back. Finally he breathed and pulled himself up.

_One…two…three…_

* * *

Gord spoke truly. They met as dinner began, hoping that the training yard would be empty of soldiers, with the day’s exercises complete. Most of the castle inhabitants were inside, but a quite few weren’t. No fewer than four soldiers lingered about the courtyard, forgetting their dinner.

Ignoring the onlookers, they wandered over to the far corner of the yard. They stretched and sparred, trying to keep to themselves. Gord did a better job than he did. His blocks came late and his swings were erratic. His feet felt like stone.

Finally, Gord lowered his sword, stopping the spar. He came up and placed his hand on Tiresias’ shoulder.

“You fought for your life and won with southern eyes watchin’ you, mate,” he muttered. “Now what? You can’t bloody spar under the gaze of these fuckers?”

Tiresias snorted. Gord clapped him on the shoulder and stepped back.

“C’mon, then. Dance, ye skinny fuck.”

They sparred more easily after that, with renewed focus. Still, Tiresias marked every newcomer to their audience. And when he and Gord finally lowered their swords, the few soldiers that lingered had swelled to a dozen.

The next spar began with a dozen spectators. The third fifteen and the fourth twenty-three. It seemed to cap there. Gord and he never shouted their intentions or advertised, but their absence in the Great Hall probably was a good indicator to all concerned, that their mysterious librarian was exercising.

Maybe that was why the Stark children never showed. They weren’t excused to watch Tiresias play with a sword. For that, he was grateful. His interactions with the Stark children were limited to the library, where he occasionally caught one of them looking back during their lessons. Though that only lasted for two days, before his presence became normal again.

However, during the fourth bout when he lost track of time, he lowered his spear to see Theon, Robb and Jon along the sides as well. All slightly out of breath, they had run to catch a spar on the tailend of dinner. Gord gave him a look and Tiresias shrugged. They went for two additional bouts that evening, ignoring the young eyes watching them.

At this rate, a month passed since his return. By returning to sparring sooner than he intended, he extended the expected end date of his excess workload from the intended fortnight, but he was glad for it. The crowds dissipated soon enough and at the month’s end, Gord and him sparred more or less in peace. With him exercising on his own every other night, he felt his body begin to return to him.

He started to spar with Jon and Arya again as well. Joining them in the godswood once a sennight, out of Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane’s sight. The Septa greeted Tiresias politely. However, both of them understood they would be happier if they avoided each other. At any rate, at least Arya and Jon were glad to have him back.

However Arya looked quite disappointed after their first bout.

Tiresias lowered his practice sword. “What?”

“You’re taking it easy on me,” said Arya, her gray eyes accusing him. “You beat the Mountain. I know you can move quicker.”

He knelt before her. “Arya, you’re not going to improve if I just beat the shit out of you. I could just move as swiftly as possible, but you won’t learn anything that way. You have to progress. Move up to quicker opponents.”

Arya didn’t back down. “I don’t care if you beat the shit out of me. If I fight you, I’ll get quicker. I know I will.”

Tiresias glanced at Jon, who was trying not to laugh. He sighed.

“I’ll make you a deal, Arya. You come here next time with pads. One bout at the end…I’ll use my speed…”

He raised his practice sword. “But I won’t be using this, but something light and hollow. We’ll build your agility, but I’ll not risk you getting hurt. Deal?”

Arya considered it and nodded. Tiresias stood, moving back.

“All right, then. Why don’t you two fight for a bit? Give me a breather.”

Settling on the roots of the weirwood, he observed the spar for a bit. Jon was fighting a bit harder than he usually did. He supposed that he took Arya’s request to heart as well.

However, the girl didn’t seem to mind. Even in the encroaching darkness, her smile was prominent as she moved to avoid her brother’s sword.

_Cousin’s sword. Jon is her cousin._

Tiresias took a draught from his waterskin, bemused at his mistake.

_It’s not a mistake though. For all intents and purposes, for how much they love each, they are brother and sister. Her mind won’t be changed by the truth. You saw it yourself._

When was the time for the truth, though? Tiresias didn’t know. He wouldn’t tell Jon without first warning Ned. They’d probably do it together at some point.

_Or he would do it himself. You’re not family, mate._

Tiresias gazed up at the weirwood face. The sounds of the spar seemed to fade as he stared into his weeping eyes.

_How about it, Raven? Don’t know how you’re adjusting to all this, but you seemed to have some say when Jon learned last time. Do you have a preference now?_

Naught but the wind answered him. Tiresias snorted lightly and turned back to the spar.

_If you could say so without making me sick again, I’d appreciate it._

* * *

His ongoing attempts to catch up with his work caused him many late evenings when he wasn’t training. He often walked back to his room in total darkness, his eyes more than able to see at night without a candle. Even without his eyes, he knew the castle well enough by now. He could walk back to his room with his eyes closed. He did it once.

A warm feeling blossomed in him when he did. He hadn’t forgotten this place, even after a ten-months’ absence.

Tonight, he allowed himself to see as he walked, massaging his hand. It had been many months since he had written so much in such a short time. He certainly didn’t feel like doing more at the end of the day. He hadn’t added to his collection of songs since he returned to Winterfell.

However, with over a month passed since his return, there was one itch that refused to go away tonight.

Lighting a candle, he ignored his bed and sat at his desk. He set the candle down and pulled out a clean short roll of parchment. Rolling up his sleeve, he dipped his quill in the inkwell and began to write.

_Lord Tyrion,_

_I’ve arrived safe and whole at Winterfell. I hope your journey to King’s Landing was just as unadventurous and that you’re enjoying your new home in the Red Keep. I didn’t have much of a chance to explore the library there, so I hope you will take what advantage I couldn’t._

_I’m glad to be home again, in my own library. Well, the library I’m curating at any rate. It’s easy to lose myself in the shelves and forget that I have a different reputation now. Stares and whispers followed me throughout the Westerlands like a stench, tracking me all the way to Winterfell. Though I suppose I’m fortunate that’s all that followed me._

_It bothers me though and in between my work, I sometimes dream how to rid myself of this stench, this notoriety I gained at Deep Den. To merely be a librarian again. In order to supplant that notoriety for another, I would probably have to gather every tome in the world, build a library as big as Harrenhal and never raise my dagger again._

_That will not happen. Not because that scheme is impossible. Even if it wasn’t, I know that however big that library grows, the Mountain’s shadow will always overtake it._

_I believe it’s a simple matter of values in this world. From I’ve witnessed, it _ _seems that people don’t value stories as much as killers. It saddens me. I never wanted a reputation in this country. Or anywhere. But if I were to have gained any fame, I had hoped it would be for my work here in the Winterfell. It would have been a victory fo__r the still and considered people of this world, who too often get sidelined by the commotion of those who are loud, violent and reactionary__._

_I’m running out of room, so I’ll save more for the next raven. I promise not to be so dour next time. Good health to you and your family. Especially your beloved sister and first nephew._

_Cheers, Tiresias_

He paused for a moment, before lowering his quill again.

_Postscript – I hope you fare well too, Varys._

He wondered if that the spymaster would actually read Tyrion’s personal correspondence. At any rate, he probably be interested in any correspondence coming from the librarian he sold Gendry to. Who only a month later killed the Mountain.

Massaging his hand again, he stood and blew out the candle. He’ll let the ink dry and read it again in the morning. When his mind was clear from sleep. He didn’t mind putting to words his annoyance at his new reputation as a warrior. He didn’t care if that got out.

But still…perhaps future letters should be more light-hearted. And there will be more. As much as he wanted to focus on the North, he needed to build contacts in the south. Tyrion wasn’t powerful at court now, but one day…who knew? If the south erupted into war again, Tywin could recognize his son’s talents and grant him power.

_If that happens, it would be good to have his ear. Tyrion responds well to a little emotional honesty. It’s a little risky, but it could pay off._

_Plus, _Tiresias thought as he got into bed, _I like having a pen pal._

* * *

He ended up sending the raven the next day with no alterations before breakfast. It was unnecessary, but he stood at the window, watching the raven fly south until it disappeared. Which took longer than he intended.

When he finally came down for breakfast, it was at the tail end. Ginn walked by, carrying a tray.

“Morning, Ginn.”

She started a bit, seeing him, but recovered with a brisk smile. “G’morning, Tiresias. How’d you fare?”

“Well enough.” He stared at her. Her eyes were a little too wide, her voice pitched slightly higher. “You all right?”

“Aye, aye, I’m fine,” she said, still smiling. “You’re sparring with Gord tonight, aye?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Well, he’ll be busy until an hour past dinner. That all right?”

He nodded. “All right.”

“Great,” she said. “Great…he’s looking forward to it. You’ll be there?”

“Aye…” Tiresias muttered. He tried to place the look on her face. Was she excited? What for?

“Ginn, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she said lightly. “G’day, Tiresias.”

She strolled off quickly, shielding her face from his bewildered stare.

Arriving late for breakfast meant burnt bacon and little butter for the bread. Tiresias didn’t mind. He wolfed down his food, trying to clear his mind, trying not to be curious. He had to focus. If he buckled down, he could finish the last of the inquiries from the western coast before supper and be caught up with all his work.

“Good morning, Tiresias.”

He turned with bread in mouth to see Sansa Stark before him. Her hands were behind her. Septa Mordane stood next to her, a polite smile to go with Sansa’s genuine one.

Swallowing as quickly and politely as he could, he nodded.

“Good morning, Lady Sansa. How are you today?”

“I am well. Thank you for asking.”

Knowing not to do so would be potentially unwise, Tiresias nodded to her caretaker as well.

“Septa. Good morning.”

She gave a polite nod back. “Good morning, Tiresias. The Lady Stark has something she wishes to give you.”

“Oh?” He turned back to Sansa, who brought her hand forward. Folded neatly was the armband she took back the night he returned. The stitches were mended beautifully, the direwolf head as strong as it was when he set out to the Lonely Hills.

And encompassing the direwolf were six blue winter roses of various sizes. Tiresias wiped his hands free of bacon grease before he took the cloth. His fingers traced the roses gently.

“Six roses…” he murmured, before looking up to Sansa. He switched to the Old Tongue. “_One blue rose for each Stark child?”_

Sansa nodded. _“Aye.”_

“What did you say, Tiresias?” asked Septa, still polite, but frowning.

Tiresias turned to her. “Forgive me, Septa. I said, ‘Six blue roses. One for each of the Stark children…’

He looked at Sansa, grinning. “And one for me.”

Septa Mordane bent over, peering at the armband. Sansa shot him a sly smile. Finally the Septa straightened and cleared her throat.

“I see,” she said. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Sansa.”

Tiresias stood, placing the armband in his pocket and grabbing the rest of his bacon.

“It is indeed. Thank you, my Lady. I’ll wear it proudly when I next ride from Winterfell. See you later in the library. Septa.”

He exited quickly, before any mockery overtook his smile. It was easier to be polite with the Septa. And in all fairness, Septa Mordane seemed determined to be polite as well.

_Well, bigots can be polite. In fact, they often are._

Trudging up the stairs and along the corridor to the library tower, Tiresias sighed before chewing the rest of his bacon. His eyes drifted to the window as he swallowed and what he saw caused him to immediately halt.

He stepped to the glass to make sure he was seeing correctly. Bran was stepping along the battlements. It wasn’t the nimble surety that he displayed when King Robert arrived, but there was a fearlessness there. Whether it was his age or natural skill, he seemed at ease with a sharp drop next to him.

A growing group of house guards were beginning to follow him from the ground. Tiresias sighed and continued. It was fair to assume that Bran would be late this morning and scolded by Catelyn this evening.

_You won’t fall from the Broken Tower this time…so will it be elsewhere? Will the dreams come then? Or will they come before? If we’re truly on a shortened timeline here…_

The only person that would come to him, should Bran begin to dream of the Three-Eyed Raven, was Lord Stark. With no word from the man, Tiresias assumed that the boy dreamt normal dreams and no whispers in his sleep propelled him beyond the Wall.

The rest of the day passed quickly. Tiresias kept to the library and before dinner, he filed away an inquiry from Flint’s Finger, finishing the last backed-up item from his absence. Tomorrow he could have a relatively normal day as the Winterfell librarian.

_Only took me over a month…_

But it was done. He breathed easier as he blew out the candles and exited the library. He’d have an hour to kill before meeting Gord.

_No, no, after dinner. Ginn said so. Rather strangely too…_

After a fruitless minute contemplating Ginn’s behavior, he put it out of his mind. It wasn’t his business. Probably wasn’t even about him. Or his spar. She had no part of those in the past. She had her own life, her own worries.

_Believe it or not, mate, not everything revolves around you._

Tiresias snorted and turned for the main gates. Bran inspired him this morning. He glanced at his hands, flexing them. He hadn’t climbed in a while. It would to do to exercise that little gift. He wished there was snow though, to cushion any falls. There would be no scaling to the top this early evening. Just mere bouldering.

_That’s all right. Builds muscle as well. Besides…you don’t want Bran’s fate, do you?_

He walked along the walls, trying to find a spot.

_Won’t share his fate though…feel safe saying I won’t be opening a third eye in my lifetime._

Taking a few minutes to stretch, he reached up and began to climb.

He took care though. Whether it was luck or pre-ordained, he was already gifted by some entity when he woke up in Westeros. The chances of the Three-Eyed Raven passing along his gifts to him as well if he were crippled were slim-to-none.

* * *

Tiresias stared at Gord. He had been feigning nonchalance the whole evening but as they wound down their exercise and began their final spar, the cracks began to show. It wasn’t even the exercise that wore him down. He could hear the man’s shortened breath, racing heartbeat, his eyes straying to the castle whenever he thought Tiresias wasn’t looking.

He was like Ginn this morning. Tiresias noticed it right from the start, peering at him.

“You all right?” he asked multiple times.

And Gord would nod every time. “Aye, aye,” he said, his eyes always flickering toward the keep. Then he would shake his head and tighten his grip on his sword.

“Another?”

They did continue but for whatever reason, Gord’s head just wasn’t in the training yard. Tiresias tried to stop, however whenever he suggested adjourning the exercise, Gord rejected it.

“I’m fine, mate! I’m fine. Just a few more, aye?”

The few more spars had turned into several and it was another hour before Gord relented, finally calling it quits for the night. They put their swords away. Gord was quiet, his usual jovial teasing absent.

Tiresias ignored it, putting it down to an off evening.

“G’night, Gord,” he said, striding away.

“Mate,” Gord called behind him. He turned back to see Gord, shuffling his right foot, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Aye?”

“You going to the springs?”

He nodded. “Aye…I always bathe after we spar.”

“You should…umm…” Gord flexed his fingers. Tiresias heard his heart racing. “You should go to your room.”

“What?”

“Go to your room. Forget the springs for tonight and just…go there. To your room.”

Tiresias stared at Gord. “Why?”

There was no answer, though Gord finally raised his eyes to meet his.

A small laugh escaped him. He couldn’t help it. “Gord, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know, mate.” He cleared his throat. “It’s only what I was told to tell you.”

“Who told you?”

Gord grabbed his furs, draping them over his shoulders. He walked over to Tiresias, stopping before him.

“You trust me, mate?”

Tiresias nodded. “Aye.”

“Well, all right, then.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Til next time, then.”

With that, Gord proceeded to the west gate, toward Wintertown, walking a bit more quickly than usual. Tiresias stared after him even when he disappeared.

_The hell you on about, Gord?_

He turned his gaze toward the castle, wondering what could possibly be in his room that would negate a wash after exercise. His mind went to ridiculous places, imagining dangers and traps springing on him once he opened his door.

The thought inspired a low chuckle from him. He trusted Gord. Whatever was waiting in his room wouldn’t endanger him. But the caution didn’t disappear. He didn’t like mysteries. Not in this world.

With an brisk exhale, he left the training yard. Whatever it was, he could deal with it promptly and then head to the springs. Wash off the remnants of his spar.

He stalked slowly through the castle to his room. It was unnecessary, but he couldn’t help it. He wished Gord was a bit more forthcoming, hadn’t picked this evening to play coy.

Finally he stood in front of his door. Steeling himself, he reached for the knob.

He froze and sniffed, his ears sharpening. The hearth was lit. He could smell the fire. He could also hear the blaze and someone moving about inside. He tried to identify the scent, but it was masked by the door and the smoke.

Whoever it was, they weren’t sneaking about, but moving freely. Not worried about being caught.

Taking a breath, he opened the door and entered.

A woman crouched before the hearth, framed by the blaze. She didn’t jump or turn around when he entered, but continued to feed the flames. Tiresias didn’t need her to turn around though. He recognized her from behind…

After a few more seconds, she stood up and turned. She had lit the other candles in the room, which illuminated her face, the little flames reflected in her brown eyes.

Tiresias remained by the door; his hand frozen on the knob.

“Mal?” he said softly.

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes went to the door. Understanding immediately, he closed it. It seemed to creak more than usual.

He faced the door for a second more, bracing himself before turning back. His pulse was beginning to race.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to help you,” she answered, as quietly as him.

“Help me what?”

Her eyes went down and he followed them. There was a low washing tub in front of the fire. He hadn’t noticed it. Pitchers stood next to the fire. Steam arose from a few of them.

Tiresias looked back up. Her eyes were already back on him. He tried to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. His mind was numb.

But he could still hear. Despite her composed face, Mal’s heart was beating quickly too. And her smell…it was different now. Like it was when they spoke outside of the kitchens near a year ago…

When she spoke though, her voice was still calm and quiet.

“Lock the door.”

The soft command entered his head slowly and so he hesitated before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the key. He turned back to the door, finding comfort there, staring at it. She was too much. He tried to calm himself, the breathing exercise from Clark’s mother…

_No, mate, no…you don’t want his mother anywhere near this…_

He locked the door. A beat later, he went to the bedside table and placed the key on top. It seemed heavy as he set it down. His fingers shook.

Tiresias turned back to Mal. She regarded him, hiding her quickened breath and racing heart with more success than him.

Without taking her eyes off him, she reached down to her wrists and unbuttoned the cuffs. She rolled the sleeves up, tucking them in firmly, before folding her hands in front of her.

Tiresias tried to think. Had he ever seen her forearms before? Whenever she served, whenever she stitched and sewed, had he ever seen them…

“Undress.”

This command was quieter than the first. He heard her fortifying breath beforehand, but her brown eyes showed no embarrassment and her low voice was certain.

The wind was quiet tonight. It didn’t billow against the castle. There was no respite, nothing to cover the crackle of the fire, his racing heart…

He sat down on the bed and began to unbuckle his boots. He turned his eyes on the straps, but he still felt her gaze upon him. Once he pulled the boots off, he stood, eyes on the wall as he removed his belt. He laid it on the bed gently behind him.

When the shirt came off, he did the same, folding it out of sheer habit before placing it down. He unbuttoned his trousers, trying not to hesitate, trying not to hurry.

He stared determinedly at the wall through all of this. As his fingers clasped the drawstring in his braies, he breathed and turned back to Mal, still regarding him silently. His undergarment did nothing to conceal his erection.

Her expression didn’t change though. She didn’t even look down. Her eyes still met his.

Exhaling through his nose, he pulled the drawstring loose and lowered his braies, stepping out of them. He folded them on the bed and faced her. It was an effort to keep his hands to his sides.

Mal’s eyes washed over him along with the heat from the flames. It was only a quick glance though and she met his eyes again.

He heard her swallow before speaking. “Get in.”

Tiresias focused his gaze on the tub before stepping forward. Feeling was not distributed evenly throughout his body. His feet felt numb, but his fingers trembled slightly. He hadn’t trembled like this in years…

The round tub was only a foot tall. Once he stepped over, Mal turned and picked up a pitcher by the fire. Steam rose from the opening.

He squatted in the center and closed his eyes. In his darkness, he heard Mal step behind him and warm water draped across his back and shoulders, on top of his head, wetting his hair. The tension seeped from him. Exhaling, he wiped the water from his face and opened his eyes.

Mal placed the pitcher back, next to the fire. When she turned back, he saw a block of soap in her hands. She came to the tub, crouching down by his side and dipped the soap in the tub. Once it was wetted, she took out a cloth and wetted that too, rubbing the soap and the cloth together.

Tiresias gazed at her as she worked. She kept her eyes down though, on her hands. However when he looked away, gazing to the fire, he swore her eyes flickered up at him.

And he could still hear her own heart racing, despite her calm, despite her quiet. It made for a lovely song against the crackle of the flames, the water dripping from his body…

When the cloth was sufficiently soaped, she positioned herself behind him. He sat and crossed his legs. He placed his hands on the rim of the tub, gripping it. If he didn’t, he couldn’t say how long he could resist not touching her. His fingers began to tremble again, against the wood as she began to wash his back.

Her hands were strong, with fingers durable from needlework. They worked their way across him, one holding his shoulder while the other scrubbed. She wasn’t harsh though. She didn’t work quickly. His breath fell into a steady rhythm as she got the top middle of his back he could never easily reach, around the shoulder blades and onto his neck and shoulders.

As she reached for his right shoulder, she stood and bent over him. Tiresias felt her breath on his neck and closed his eyes, savoring it.

But she stood up soon after and the graze of the cloth was gone. Tiresias heard her walk back to the fire and pick up another pitcher. Warm water hit his back and shoulders again as the suds slid from his skin. He loosened his grip on the tub and exhaled. His arms felt heavy all of a sudden.

He opened his eyes to see Mal standing before him, pitcher at her feet, soaped cloth in hand. The request in her eyes clear enough, Tiresias stood. Slowly though, as to not send water over the tub’s edge and onto the floor.

Her eyes followed his as he rose above her. She barely came up to his shoulders. Barely a beat passed before her eyes fell to his chest. He didn’t need to ask what she was looking at. Even with the hair on his chest, it was quite prominent.

She reached out and traced the scar that Clegane gave him, the only permanent marker from their duel. Luckily. Her fingers grazed it slowly, from his right pectoral to his left abdomen. She lingered at the end of it, before meeting his eyes again. He tried to read hers. The steeled look was back. It was muted and calm, but it was back.

Then again, he didn’t quite trust himself to see and think clearly. He was standing nude in front of her, fully erect. His breath was still a little short.

Without breaking eye contact, she raised her cloth and began to scrub his chest. She worked her way around his torso, lifting his arm to get his sides, then tending to the arms. Once that was done, she stepped behind, scrubbing the lower back she didn’t get while he was sitting. Without hesitation, she continued on to his buttocks. Tiresias tried and failed to breathe calmly.

She didn’t hurry in that area, but she didn’t linger either, crouching down and getting his legs, scrubbing his calves and the back of his thighs. When she was done, Tiresias placed one foot up, balancing on the rim. Mal came to the front, eyes down on his leg as she washed it and then the other one. They both did their best to ignore his groin, his obvious arousal, her cloth coming close, but never touching. Her eyes only on what she scrubbed. Collected. Relaxed.

But he still heard her heart racing. The song of her blood. Almost as fast as his.

Finally she straightened and he placed his foot back into the tub. She placed the cloth in a loose sack and fetched another pitcher. The water wasn’t steaming, but it was still warm as it rinsed the suds from his body. She poured it slowly, from all around him. Deftly too. Only a couple dozen drops escaped the boundary of the round tub.

With the pitcher empty, she placed it gently on the floor next to the other empty one. She grabbed the last full pitcher and came to the tub. She crouched down in front of him. Tiresias stared, but she did not look up. She merely set down the pitcher and picked up the soap, wetting it in the tub. Then she scrubbed her hands, whipping up a lather.

“On your knees,” she said, eyes still on her hands.

He didn’t mishear her. He knew that. And having not questioned any of her commands, he was not inclined to start now. Exhaling, he lowered himself, submerging his knees below the low level of water collected in the tub. He knelt there, knowing to wait. Mal was still lathering her hands.

But she stopped shortly and looked to him. Her face was still calm, but her brown eyes gleamed and she swallowed slightly before speaking.

“Move yourself to the edge.”

Shuffling gently from the center, he brought himself just before the rounded rim of the tub. Mal still met his eyes and he didn’t stray from her gaze. He did, however, grip the edge of the tub as he did before. And for the same reason. He had a very good idea, and hope, of what she’d do next.

Sure enough, she lowered her eyes and brought her lathered hands to his groin. He couldn’t help a small gasp.

She didn’t seem to mind. Her hands moved through his hair, along his shaft and cupped his scrotum. It wasn’t a massage, but it was a thorough, gentle scrub.

Tiresias lowered his head, his breathing deep, but quickening. After a few seconds, she glanced back up at him, her brown eyes boring into him. That almost ended him. He couldn’t look at her. He dropped his eyes, averting his gaze, but looking down meant gazing down at her hands. Her wonderful hands and how they worked…

He closed his eyes and panted softly. There was no hiding it from Mal, not that he wanted to. He didn’t care if she saw his chest rise and fall, his fingers tremble, his cock twitch…

One of her hands left him and he opened his eyes. She reached for the last pitcher. Cupping his scrotum and raising it up, she slowly poured water, rinsing the suds. The water wasn’t warm and it helped Tiresias slow down his breathing.

With everything rinsed, Mal dropped his privates and poured water over her own hands, flicking them free of water over the tub. Tiresias remained on his knees and continued to breathe, closing his eyes again. His hands still gripped the rim.

“Do you shave when you wash?”

He opened his eyes. She was standing before him, wiping her hands with a cloth. Swallowing, he nodded.

“Sometimes.”

“Where’s your razor?”

He nodded dully off to the corner. “Drawer. Top left.”

His ears followed Mal as she walked to the drawer and extracted the razor. His eyes remained on the blaze in the hearth. It was beginning to diminish, the shadows growing deeper around him.

Sighing, he relinquished his grip on the rim and sat back down in the tub. He ran his hands over his face, feeling the harsh beginnings of a beard.

Mal returned with the razor and crouched before him as before. She had also brought the shaving soap he had. Wetting it in the tub, she lathered her hands as before. Though this time, she worked much more quickly. Tiresias settled in, bringing his face forward.

With her hands lathered, Mal began to rub the soap in, along his neck, in circles on the cheeks and gently above the lip.

“You ever done this before?” Tiresias asked, doing his best not to move his mouth.

“Aye,” Mal muttered. She rinsed her hands. “My family were pig farmers. ‘Fore they passed. Shaved my first dead hog when I was six.

“Just a wee lass,” he murmured.

Mal raised the razor, turning the blade out.

“Aye,” she said. “Grew up quick though. Can I borrow your belt?”

He nodded and she fetched his belt from the bed, running the razor back and forth across it. With the edge prepared, she crouched down again and raised the blade to his cheek.

Tiresias didn’t know if skill with a needle correlated to skill with a razor. But it seemed to be the case with Mal. She brought the blade down thoroughly and the deep scratch of the razor sent a tingle through the rest of him. His right cheek was quickly smooth and she started on the left.

“When’d you shave last?” she asked, her eyes unblinking on the blade.

He shrugged. Carefully. “Yester morn.”

Between every stroke, she lowered the blade into the water, cleaning it.

“Quite the shadow you’ve grown in a day.” She grabbed his chin gently, turning him to the firelight and raising his head. “Why don’t you grow it out?”

“Never needed it for the cold,” he said, eyes on the ceiling. “Besides, a beard shields you from everything else. I like to feel things. The wind, the scratch of a razor, the water when I swim…”

He lowered his eyes to her. She was almost done with his neck.

“Woman's kiss.”

The blade paused, but only slightly before she continued. Once the neck was done, she lowered his chin. With the blade clean, she started around his mouth, beginning below his lips.

Her brown eyes were open before him. He could stare into them, as they focused on the razor.

She was still shaving when she spoke.

“You’d put me in danger…” Her voice was softer than the flames. “If we were together?”

Tiresias sighed. “I believe so.”

“And you still want to be with me?”

“That’s why it’s your choice. My enemies…they’re not yours.”

Mal finished with his chin and dipped the blade below the water. The blade stayed there though; her eyes downcast.

“These enemies of yours…they know you’re pledged to House Stark? That you work for them?”

She spoke quietly. As though the walls could hear them.

“Aye,” answered Tiresias. “They do.”

The fire crackled behind her.

“I also work for House Stark. Training to dress them. Shield them from the winters. Make them beautiful.” She snorted lightly. “Do my best anyway.”

Mal then sighed, her shoulders rising and falling, as she exhaled through her nose.

“So I guess…in a way…I’m already pledged to House Stark too…since you’re pledged to House Stark…your enemies are theirs…and their enemies are mine as well…with or without you as my man.”

She raised her eyes. They were full of steel. His fingers were still gentle as they steadied his chin. Mal focused unblinkingly as she tended to the beginnings of his moustache.

“As for the time away…I’m still peeved at you for that. Need more than a thimble and threads to make up for that…but in the years ahead…if I know that you’re traveling far, staying away long…I could handle it, I suppose.”

“You could?”

She shrugged. “Always figured I’d marry a soldier ‘fore I met you.”

The razor paused. “Perhaps Otis?” she said lightly.

“Otis?”

A shadow of a grin ran across her face.

“Well, he’s gentle enough. Not too tall. Turns red when he says hello. He brought me yellow snapdragons when I stopped serving.”

“Sounds darling,” Tiresias murmured.

“He’s a soldier still.” The little joviality there dropped. “He’ll leave as all soldiers do. Go and put himself in danger. Leave me to wonder if he’s coming back.”

Turning his chin slightly, she got the corners of his mouth.

“It could be the same with many other men. I could marry a sailor…a hunter…a miner…they'd all give me the worries a woman expects in life.”

She met his eyes briefly. “And it won’t be any different with you, aye? So you say?”

“No…probably not.”

Her fingers ran over his upper lip. “You killed the Mountain. You’re a good fighter.”

That wasn’t a question. And so he remained silent as she wiped the blade clean and closed it. She took a clean cloth and dipped it in the pitcher. Wringing it, she brought it to his face, wiping him clean.

“When you’re away, doing whatever Lord Stark commands of you…I trust you to survive…and to come back. And if any of our enemies come to see to me or anyone else, I trust you to protect them. To protect me.”

“And if I’m away when they come?” Tiresias asked, almost whispering. That was his fear, which kept him from her the most. He was helpless away from Winterfell, beyond the Wall, in the south…he couldn’t protect her then…

Mal dropped the damp cloth in the linens sack. She remained crouched though and stroked his face, checking her work. Her fingers glided over his skin and stopped, cupping his cheek.

“If that should happen,” she said quietly. “I trust you to kill whoever harmed me.”

Her face was level with his and her brown eyes bored deep into his. There was a little fear there, but the steel was back, gleaming with strength.

Her last statement wasn’t a question. But still, he felt compelled to nod.

Tiresias felt her exhale as she moved forward. He closed his eyes and felt her lips press against his cheek. The kiss lingered and her mouth opened, her tongue swirling delicately on his skin. She moved down to his neck and did the same, tasting him.

A faint moan escaped him. He turned his head to kiss her hand, still cupping his cheek.

And then she stood. Not too quickly. And he was left sitting in the tub, with a racing heart and quickened breath.

Mal took a breath herself and began to unroll her sleeves, buttoning her cuffs. Tiresias began to laugh lightly.

“You shouldn’t kiss my neck like that if you don’t want me to come after you.”

She smiled and tossed him a drying cloth. “I’ll keep that in mind when we’re wed.”

Tiresias stood and began to pat himself down.

“You want to get married soon?”

Mal shrugged. “Wouldn’t mind a few months of an actual courtship. Gifts from afar are nice, but…”

For the first time that evening, she smiled with a hint of embarrassment. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Tiresias stepped out, drying his feet. “Think I’m the poetic type?”

She checked that her hair was in place before she picked up her bag.

“Aye, I’ve heard you sing. Remember?”

With that, she went to the door. Her calm exit was disrupted when she forgot that the door was locked. She lowered her head, her hand still on the knob. He could see her embarrassed grin from the side.

“Here,” said Tiresias, coming over. He grabbed the key from the bed and reached around her. She didn’t move, but he still heard her pulse quicken.

Mal opened the door slowly, checking that the corridor was deserted before stepping out. She turned back to Tiresias, still damp and wrapped in a cloth at the door. A little quiet laughter escaped her before she calmed.

“G’night,” she said with a slight smile.

“G’night,” he said quietly. His mouth was quite dry.

With that, she turned and strode away, her shoes echoing down the corridor. Tiresias didn’t linger in the doorway to watch her disappear. He shut the door and locked it again. Soon there’d be a night when she didn’t leave.

_And a night when she wouldn’t leave you like this._

Tiresias looked down and laughed. That damn kiss on his neck had stirred him again. He was tempted to finish it off. But as he played with himself, he soon dropped it, not feeling like it.

He wanted to see her eyes, see them cloud over in ecstasy as he lost himself in them. Anything else…just seemed inadequate.

_You be careful, mate. Happy wife, happy life…it’d be great…but you still have work to do._

He certainly did and he couldn’t really do that with Mal on his mind above and an erect cock below. Sitting on the bed, he started the breathing exercises. Now was the time to bring Clark’s mother into this.

_Inhale on one, two, three, four…and hold on one, two, three, four…and release on one, two, three, four…_

After ten minutes, he was calmed. And exhausted. The fire was almost gone and sleep would come soon.

But it wasn’t here yet. There was still work to do. And candles were still lit. He grabbed two of them and made his way to the desk. There, he opened a tome on the Dornish noble houses he grabbed from the library a few nights ago. He wasn’t sure how much he would retain in the morning. But he needed to work.

And so he read into the night. When he laid down to sleep later, Dornish houses passed through his mind, some remaining in the crevices, others escaping him.

He turned over and, in the darkness, he saw a pair of brown eyes. He could still smell her in the room. His breath fluttered and he closed his eyes.

_Soon, mate. Soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, readers! I made the early publishing date! Here's a behemoth of a chapter and with that, it's time for a hiatus as I write another 100k words of The Prophet from Maine. I have a way to keep you informed of my progress without false chapter notifications, but I do need a break from this. So it won't be on the story summary for another few weeks.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments, your kudos (over 1100!) and your hits (over 42k!). It's so fun to write this and it's very rewarding to see a response like this. So thank you. I hope I return relatively soon!
> 
> PS: Just a plea...please keep the comments PG, even though the story's mature. Thank you!


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